
.-< 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



GOLDEN POEMS 



H3j) ISrittel) an* American glutljots, 



EDITED BY 

FRANCIS F. BROWNE. 



" The Poet in a golden clime was born, 
With golden stars above." 

" The Folk-songs old that never are outworn, 

"Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care ; 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer." 






Chicago: 

JANSEN, McCLURG, & COMPANY. 

1882. 
■ 



fRH7^ 

.31 r 



copyright: 

JANSEN, McCLURG, & COMPANY. 
1881. 



STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED 



THE CHICAGO LEC 



PREFACE 



The plan and scope of the present volume are, it is be- 
lieved, sufficiently explained by its title and by its contents 
and arrangement. As, however, the number of poetical 
anthologies is already large, a word of justification may 
properly be expected of any one who would venture to in- 
crease the number. 

In any close survey of the larger compilations of Dana, 
Bryant, Coates, Fields and Whipple, and Sargent, it is 
thought that the reader, while impressed with the fulness 
and richness of these noble collections, must notice the 
comparatively small number of pieces which have become 
to any considerable extent popular favorites. It is apparent 
also that miscellaneous collections should be chiefly popular 
in plan and purpose. The field of English poetry is so vast 
that no anthologies, however wide their scope, can serve as 
a substitute for the works of the various authors; and 
attempts to make them do this must result in cumbersome 
and unwieldy as well as expensive volumes. Of smaller 
books we already have, it is true, a number which admira- 
bly serve their purpose; but it is no disparagement of these 
to note their limited range — their design being in general 
to represent some special department or some particular 
period of poetry, or to express the individual tastes and 
preferences of their illustrious compilers. Belonging to 
the first of these classes are works so admirable as 

(Hi) 



IV PREFACE. 

Palgrave's " Golden Treasury" — which is restricted to songs 
and l}-rics, and represents no American authors, and no 
British authors as recent as Tennyson and the Brownings, 
— Johnson's " Single Famous Poems," and Lodge's " Bal- 
lads and Lyrics;" and to the second class, Whittiers 
" Songs of Three Centuries," Longfellow's " Poems of 
Places," and Emerson's " Parnassus." 

Having this popular aim prominently in view, the com- 
piler of the present volume has hoped to be able, by limit- 
ing his selections as closely as possible to short pieces, to 
bring together a larger number and greater variety of popu- 
lar poetical favorites than can perhaps be found elsewhere in 
equal compass. It would of course be too much to expect 
that any reader could find here all his favorite pieces. Judg- 
ments would differ in many instances as to what should be 
given precedence; and some chance omissions are inevita- 
ble. As a necessary result of the preference for short 
pieces, many of the older writers are represented but spar- 
ingly: and from this there also results, what it is hoped may 
prove to be an advantage — and what, indeed, has been one 
of the objects of the book — that many pieces are to be 
found here which are not usually given in similar collec- 
tions. In order to afford as wide a representation of authors 
as possible, the selections have been confined, except in a 
very few instances, to a small number from each. Many 
authors, indeed, are known by but a single piece — which 
would hence have a special claim to a place here. As far as 
practicable, whole poems have been chosen; but where an 
author could best be represented by some familiar or char- 
acteristic extract, this has been used, and in such case the 
full title of the poem from which the extract is taken usu- 
ally appears at the end. 

Great pains have been taken to secure correct versions of 
the pieces used. This is, however, a matter of too much 
difficulty to permit any one who has ever attempted it to be 
confident of entire success. Many of the finest pieces are 
not to be found in any authentic form, but exist only as 



PREFACE. V 

waifs and strays of literature. Some have so long borne 
titles ditFerent from those their authors gave them, that they 
would scarcely be recognized by any other name; while 
others have not only been re-christened, but also re-appar- 
elled in such a way that their own parents might almost 
pass them by as strangers: like the poor palmer with Mar- 
mion at Norham Castle, they have become so changed by 
fortune and hard usage, that 



-The mother that them bare, 



If she had been in presence there, k 
She had not known her child." 

The classification of the poem3, in which the stereotyped 
chronological order is abandoned for an arrangement by 
subjects, is believed to be that most effective and convenient 
in a popular work like this. It is necessarily somewhat ar- 
bitrary, since it is not always clear to which one of several 
classes a poem most fitly belongs. It is hoped, however, 
that the classification will be found in the main correct, 
and that its adoption will be approved by use. 

As has seemed proper and desirable in an American col- 
lection, liberal quotations have been made from the works 
of American poets. These have been necessarily subject 
to existing copyright restrictions, which may explain any 
seeming disproportion in the representation of the various 
authors. The search for material, both in British and 
American poetry, has been brought down as nearly as pos- 
sible to the present; and a very interesting feature of the 
collection, it is thought, is the large number of remarkable 
poems from unknown and little-known authors. Transla- 
tions — since a translated poem really becomes a new poem 
— are in this work indexed under the name of the translator, 
or as anonymous where the translator is not known: though 
the name of the original author is frequently given at the end 
of translated pieces. 

The editor desires to express his obligations to the cour- 
tesy and liberality of many American authors and publish- 
ers in permitting the use of copyrighted matter — especially 



VI PREFACE. 

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., whose list is so rich in the 
poetry not only of our standard writers but of minor poets; 
and Messrs. J. R. Osgood & Co., Messrs. Roberts Brothers, 
Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, Messrs. Harper & Brothers, 
Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., 
and Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co. 

F. F. B. 
Chicago, November, 1881. 



CONTENTS. 



Part I. — By the Fieeside. 

PAGE 

Like a Laverock in the Lift Jean Ingelow. 27 

Only a Baby Small Matthias Barr. 27 

Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland, 28 

Choosing- a Name Mary Lamb. 29 

My Babes in the Wood Sallie M. B. Piatt. 30 

" Bairnies, Cuddle Doon " .... Alexander Anderson. 31 

The Children's Hour . . . Henry Wads worth Longfellow. 32 

Willie Winkie William Miller. 33 

The Farmer Sat in his Easy Chair . Charles Gamage Eastman. 34 

Not One to Spare Ethel Lynn Beers. 35 

Tired Mothers May Riley Smith. 36 

Winifreda Anonymous. 37 

Don't be Sorrowful, Darling Rembrandt Peale. 38 

John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns. 39 

The Sailor's Wife Jean Adam. 39 

A Winter Evening at Home William Cowper. 41 

Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne. 41 

It 's Hame and it 's Hame Allan Cunningham. 42 

Old Folks at Home Stephen Collins Foster. 42 

My Old Kentucky Home Stephen Collins Foster. 43 

In a Strange Land James Thomas Fields. 44 

No Time like the Old Time Anonymous. 44 

The Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Wood-worth. 45 

Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney. 46 

I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood. 47 

Graves of a Household . . . , . Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 48 

The Family Meeting Charles Sprague. 49 

(vii) 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Part II. — Nature's Voices. 

PAGE 

The World is Too Much With Us . . William Wordsworth. 53 

Invocation to Nature Percy Bysshe Shelley. 53 

Freedom of Nature James Thomson. 54 

Nature's Delights John Keats. 54 

Imaginative Sympathy with Nature .... Lord Byron. 55 

Varying Impressions from Nature . . William Wordsworth. 55 

Nature in Spring James Thomson. 56 

June William Cullen Bryant, hi 

Spring in Carolina Henry Timrod. 58 

June James Russell Lowell. 59 

A Summer Morn - James Beattie. 61 

Summer John Townsend Trowbridge. 62 

September George Arnold. 63 

Winter William Cowper. 64 

Months and Seasons . . . . . . . . Edmund Spenser. 65 

Trees, Flowers, and Birds Geoffrey Chaucer. 68 

Loves of the Plants Erasmus Darwin. 69 

Violets Bobert Herric . 70 

The First Violet Marie B. Williams. 70 

The Violet William Wetmore Story. 72 

The Daisy Geoffrey Chaucer. 72 

Daffodils William Wordsworth. 73 

To a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley. 73 

The Skylark James Hogg. 76 

To the Cuckoo William Wordsworth. 77 

Ode to a Nightingale John Keats. 78 

The Ocean Lord Byron. 79 

To Seneca Lake James Gates Percival. 80 

The Sierras Joaquin Miller. 81 

Hymn before Sunrise Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 82 

Sunrise Edmund Spenser. 84 

Morning William Shakespeare. 84 

Dawn Richard Watson Gilder. 84 

Hail, Holy Light John Milton. 85 

Night Edward Young. 86 

Night . . . Lord Byron. 86 

Night Percy Bysshe Shelley. 87 

Stars Lord Byron. 88 

Day is Dying . . Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 88 

The Evening Win! William Cullen Bryant. 89 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Ode to the West Wind Percy By sshe ShelUy\ 90 

The Thunder-Storm James Thomson. 91 

A Thunder- Storm in the Alps Lord Byron. 92 

The Snow-Storm James Thomson. 93 

Before the Rain . • Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 94 

After the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 94 

The Rainbow James Thomson. 94 

The Rainbow William Wordsworth. 95 

Part III. — Fueams and Fancies. 

Dreamers Joaquin Miller. 99 

Fancies John Ford. 99 

Drifting Thomas Buchanan Bead. 100 

Basking Sidney I) obeli. 102 

Echo and Silence .... Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges. 103 

Indirection Richard Realf. 103 

Give Me Back My Youth Again. . From the German of Goethe. 104 

In Our Boat ....... Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 105 

Convalescence Edgar Allan Poe. 105 

Alone by the Hearth George Arnold. 106 

At Best John Boyle O'Reilly. 107 

Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson. 108 

Egyptian Serenade ...... George William Curtis. 108 

Chimney Swallows Horatio Nelson Powers. 109 

g ori g Celia Thaxter. 110 

The Golden Silence William Winter. Ill 

The Blessed Damozel Dante Gabriel Eossetti. Ill 

In the Mist Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 113 

Upon the Beach Henry David Thoreau. 114 

A Strip of Blue Lucy Larcom. 115 

Pre-Existence * • Paul Hamilton Hayne. 116 

An Old Man's Idyl Richard Realf. 117 

Some Day of Days Nora Perry. 119 

Sleeping and Dreaming .... Josiah Gilbert Holland. 119 

Part IV. — Friendship and Sympathy. 

Forever John Boyle O'Reilly. 125 

The Memory of the Heart Daniel Webster. 125 

Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns. 126 

Our Sister Horatio Nelson Powers. 127 

We Have Been Friends To-vther Carolina Elizabeth Norton. 127 



CONTEXTS. 



PAGT 



To Thomas Moore Lord Byron. 128 

Joseph Rodman Drake Fitz-Greene Hallech. 129 

Invitation to Izaak Walton Charles Cotton. 129 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice Alfred Tennyson. 131 

To Victor Hugo Alfred Tennyson. 132 

For the Moore Centennial Celebration Oliver Wendell Holmes. 132 

A Friend's Greeting Bayard Taylor. 134 

Part V. — Love. 

Wake Now, My Love Edmund Spenser. 139 

True Love William Shakespeare. 139 

My True Love Hath My Heart .... Sir Philip Sidney. 140 

Song John Gay. MO 

A Girdle .• . Edmund Waller. 141 

The Shepherd's Love Ben Jonson. 141 

To Althea from Prison Richard Lovelace. 141 

A Celebration of Char n Ben Jonson. 142 

Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly. 143 

Cherry Ripe Richard Alison. 143 

Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover . . Sir John Suckling. 144 

Julia Robert Herrick. 144 

Absence William Shakespeare. 145 

Take, Take Those Lips Away . Beaumont and Fletcher. 145 

Hark! Hark! the Lark at Heaven's Gate William Shakespeare. 146 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . Christopher Marlowe. 146 

The Nymph's Reply Sir Walter Raleigh. 147 

Pain of Love Henry Constable. 147 

How Many Times ...... Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 148 

I Do Confess Thou 'rt Sweet Sir Robert Ayton. 148 

A Parting Michael Drayton. 149 

Afton Water . Robert Bums. 149 

0, Saw Ye Bonnie Lesley Robert Burns. 150 

First Love Lord Byron. 151 

How do I Love Thee .... Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 152 

Ask Me No More Alfred Tennyson. 152 

Ae Fond Kiss Before We Part Robert Burns. 152 

The Departure Alfred Tennyson. 153 

Adieu Thomas Carlyle. 154 

O Swallow Flying South Alfred Tennyson. 155 

Mary Morison . Robert Burns. 156 

Annie Laurie Douglas. 156 

Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt. 157 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

Separation Alfred Tennyson. 157 

Absence Robert Burns. 157 

Love's Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley. 158 

1 Arise From Dreams of Thee . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley. 158 

Bonnie Mary Robert Burns. 159 

Three Kisses Elizabeth Barrett Broivning. 159 

0, My Luve 's Like a Red, Red Rose .... Robert Burns. 160 

Doris Arthur J . Munby . 160 

She was a Phantom of Delight . . . William Wordsworth. 161 

Janette's Hair Charles Graham Halpine. 162 

We Twain Amanda T. Jones. 163 

Kiss Me Softly ........ John Godfrey Saxe. 164 

Wooing John B. L. Soule. 165 

Pearls Richard Henry Stoddard. 165 

The Brookside . Richard Monckton Milnes {Lord Houghton). 166 

The Old Story . . Elizabeth Akers Allen {Florence Percy). 167 

We Parted in Silence Julia Crawford. 167 

Evening Song Sidney Lanier. 168 

0, Saw Ye the Lass Richard Ryan. 168 

Serenade Oscar Wilde. 169 

Love Scorns Degrees Paul Hamilton Hayne. 170 

A Song of Krishna Edwin Arnold. 170 

Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcett. 171 

I Fear Thy Kisses Percy Bysshe Shelley. 171 

The Patriot's Bride Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 172 

I Saw Two Clouds at Morning . . John Gardiner Brainard. 173 

A Woman's Question Adelaide Anne Procter. 174 

0, Lay thy Hand in Mine, Dear Gerald Massey. 175 

Part YI. — Liberty and Patriotism. 

Love of Liberty William Cowper. 179 

Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights . . Alfred Tennyson. 180 

Independence Tobias George Smollett. 180 

The Hills Were Made for Freedom William Goldsmith Brown. 181 

Downfall of Poland Thomas Campbell. 181 

The Fall of Greece . . : . Lord Byron. 182 

National Decay Oliver Goldsmith. 183 

Fair Greene! Sad Relic of Departed Worth . Lord Byron. 184 

Charles XII of Sweden Samuel Johnson. 184 

What Constitutes a State Sir William Jones. 185 

A Curse on the Traitor Thomas Moore. 186 

England William Wordsworth. 187 



Xll CONTENTS. 

TAGE 

The Better Country Oliver Goldsmith. 187 

Mazzini Laura C. Redden (Howard Glyndon). 188 

Green Fields of England ..... Arthur Hugh Clough. 188 

Saxon Grit Eobert Collyer. 189 

The Patriot's Death Fiiz-Greene Halleck. 191 

Westward the Course of* Empire .... George Berkeley. 192 

Bannockburn Robert Burns. 192 

The American Flag- Joseph Rodman Drake. 193 

The Star- Spang-led Banner Francis Scott Key. 195 

God Save the King* Henry Carey. 195 

French National Hymn . . . French of Roget De Lisle. 196 

Prussian National Anthem ..... From the German. 197 

The German's Fatherland From the German. 198 

Patriotism .'....■ Sir Walter Scott. 200 

Warren's Address John Pierpont. 200 

The Battle of Lexington Sidney Lanier. 201 

Concord Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson. 20? 

Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind .... Lord Byron. 203 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 203 

InState Forceythe Willson. 204 

Apocalypse Richard Realf. 208 

How Sleep the Brave William Collins. 209 

Part YII. — Cattle Echoes. 

Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott. 213 

Te Mariners of England Thomas Campbell. 215 

Waterloo Lord Byron. 216 

The Unreturning Brave Lord Byron. 217 

Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell. 218 

The Battle of Ivry .... Thomas Babington Macaulay. 219 

Battle of the Baltie Thomas Campbell. 221 

Border Song Sir Walter Scott. 223 

The "Revenge." — A Ballad of ths Fleet . Alfred Tennyson. 223 

The Defense of Lucknow Alfred Tennyson. 227 

Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor. 232 

Carmen Bellicosum Guy Humphrey McMaster. 233 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe. 234 

My Maryland James R. Randall. 235 

Stonewall Jackson's Way J.W. Palmer. 237 

Civil War Charles Dawson Shanly. 238 

The Arsenal at Springfield . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 239 



CONTENTS. Xlll 

Part VIII. — Humor. 

PAGE 

Love is Like a Dizziness James Hogg. 243 

Gluggity Glug Anonymous. 244 

Rory O'Mopre Samuel Lover. 245 

Jolly Good Ale and Old John Still. 246 

Little Billee William Makepeace Thackeray. 247 

The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring Henry Howard Brownell. 248 

The Doctor in Love A. McFarland. 248 

A Carman's Account of a Lawsuit . . . Sir David Lyndsay. 249 

The New Church Organ Will M. Carleton. 250 

Hans Breitrnann's Party Charles G. Leland. 252 

The Plaidie Charles Sibley. 253 

Bite Bigger Anonymous. 254 

Popping Corn . . . • Anonymous. 255 

A Housekeeper's Tragedy Anonymous. 256 

The Sailor's Consolation Charles Dibdin. 257 

The Lovers Phoebe Gary. 258 

The Nantucket Skipper James Thomas Fields. 259 

John Davidson *. . . . Anonymous. 260 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . Oliver Goldsmith. 262 

The Power of Prayer .... Sidney and Clifford Lanier. 263 

To a Fish John Wolcott. 265 

The Society Upon the Stanislaus Bret Harte. 265 

The Northern Cobbler Alfred Tennyson. 267 

The Sorrows of Werther . William Makepeace Thackeray. 271 

Part IX. — Pathos and Sorrow. 

Tears, Idle Tears ........... Alfred Tennyson. 275 

Evelyn Hope Robert Browning. 275 

Auld Robin Gray Lady Anne Barnard. 277 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 278 

The Death of the Flowers . . . William Cullen Bryant. 279 

Ashes of Roses Elaine Goodale. 280 

Claribel's Prayer Anonymous. 280 

The Death-Bed Thomas Hood. 282 

My Slain Richard Realf. 282 

The Bivouac of the Deal Theodore VHara. 283 

Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley. 285 

Three Roses Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 286 

Into the World and Oat Sallie M. B. Piatt. 286 

Hannah Binding SI1033 Lucy Larcom. 287 



XIV COXTF.XTS. 



PAGE 

The Cradle Austin Dobson. 288 

Angelus Song Austin Dobson. 288 

When the Grass shall Cover M? Anonymous. 289 

Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge. 290 

Mither, Dinna Dee . Robert Buchanan. 290 

My Heart and I Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 291 

Rosalie William C. Richards. 292 

Requiescat Oscar Wilde. 293 

The Old Sexton Park Benjamin. 293 

Only a Year Harriet Beecher Stow e. 294 

Before Sedan Austin Dobson. 295 

Highland Mary Robert Burns. 296 

My Playmate John Greenleaf Whittier. 297 

Elegy Written in-a Country Churchyard . . Thomas Gray. 299 

Lucy William Wordsworth. 302 

Three Years She Grew William Wordsworth. 303 

The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb. 304 

Under the Daisies Hattie Tyng Griswold. 305 

Lucy's Flittin 1 William Laidlaw. 306 

We are Seven William Wordsworth. 307 

The Banks 0' Doon Robert Burns. 308 

My Love is Dead Thomas Chatterton. 309 

Nevermore Lord Byron. 310 

Break, Break, Break Alfred Tennyson. 310 

A Life .... Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). 311 

It Might Have Been Anonymous. . 311 

The Hour of Death Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 313 

Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny Anonymous. 314 

The Mitherless Bairn William Thorn. 314 

The Voice of the Poor Lady Wilde (Speranza). 315 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin. 316 

The Braes of Yarrow William Hamilton. 318 

She and He Edwin Arnold. 321 

Who Ne 'er His Bread in Sorrow Ate . . From the German. 323 

The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley. 323 

The Blue and the Gray Francis Miles Finch. 324 

Decoration Day at Charleston Henry Timrod. 325 

Dirge for a Soldier George Henry Boker. 326 

The Unreturning Brave James Russell Lowell. 327 

Lord Raglan Edwin Arnold. 327 

Vale Richard Real f. 328 

Dickens in Camp Bret Harte. 329 

Obsequies of David . . . Francis Mahony (Father Prout). 330 



CONTENTS. XV 

PAGF. 

Bayard Taylor John Greenleaf Whittier. 332 

Horace Greeley Edmund, Clarence Stedman. 333 

Farewell Algernon Charles Swinburne. 335 

Paet X. — The Bettee Life. 

Heard are the Voices Thomas Carlyle. 339 

How to Live Horathis Bonar. 339 

A Happy Life Sir Henry Wotton. 340 

Gradatiru Josiah Gilbert Holland. 341 

A Hindoo's Search for Truth A. C.Lyall. 341 

Responses Ralph Waldo Emerson. 343 

De Profundis Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 344 

Restitution . . • Anonymous. 347 

" Blessed are They that Mourn " . William Cullen Bryant. 348 

The Master's Touch Horathis Bonar. 348 

I Hold Still From the German. 349 

Gethsemane Ella Wheeler. 849 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth Arthur Hugh Clough. 350 

My Legacy Helen Hunt Jackson. 351 

Bringing Our Sheaves Elizabeth Akers A lien (Florence Percy). 352 

Follow Me Abram T. By an. 353 

Hope, Faith, Love .... From the German of Schiller. 354 

Take Heart Edna Dean Proctor. 354 

How We Learn Horathis Bonar. 355 

Reaper of Life's Harvest Anonymous. 355 

Memorial Hymn — J. A. Garfield David Swing. 356 

Ripe Grain Dora Beed Goodale. 357 

All is Well Alfred Tennyson. 357 

Parted Friends James Montgomery. 358 

Peace Mary Clemmer Ames. 358 

I Shall Be Satisfied Anonymous. 359 

This World is All a Fleeting Show .... Thomas Moore. 360 

I Too Constance Feni more Woolson. 361 

The Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies . . . Thomas Moore. 362 

All Before Anonymous. 362 

Up Hill Christina G. Rossetti. 363 

When Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 363 

0, May I Join the Choir Invisible Mrs. Cross (George Eliot). 365 

Life Anna Letitia Barbauld. 366 

A Rhyme of Life Charles Warren Stoddard. 367 

Now and Afterwards .... Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 367 

Rest Mary Woolsey Howland. 268 



XVI CONTESTS. 

PAGE 

Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping . . . Horatius Bonar. 369 

The Silent Land Kate Seymour McLean. 370 

Heaven Nancy Priest Wakefield. 370 

The Dying Christian to His Soul .... Alexander Pope. 371 

Dying Hymn Alice Cary. 372 

Hereafter Harriet Prescott Spofford. 372 

Immortality Richard Henry Dana. 373 

The Immortal Part Joseph Addison. 374 

Ode on Immortality William Wordsworth. 374 

Song of Angiola in Heaven Austin Dobson. 379 

The Discoverer Edmund Clarence Stedman. 381 

There is no Death . . \, d H^XcUuiy^o^ - A n onymo us. 382 

No More Sea Anonymous. 333 

The Other World Harriet Beecher Stowe. 384 

Two Worlds Mortimer Collins. 335 

Spiritual Communions Alfred Tennyson. 387 

The Future Life William Cullen Bryant. 337 

Over the River Nancy Priest Wakefield. 388 

Only Waiting '.. Frances Laughton Mace. 389 

I Would Not Live Alway . William Augustus Muhlenberg. 390 

Nearer Home Phoebe Cary. 391 

Longing for Home Jean Ingeloia. 392 

Ministry of Angels Edmund Spenser. 393 

Nearer, My God, to Thee Sarah Flower Adams. 394 

The Better Way Jean Ingelow. 395 

Abide With Me Henry Francis Lyte. 396 

The Way, the Truth, and the Life . . . Theodore Parker. 396 

The Pillar of the Cloud John Henry Neivman. 397 

God John Bowring. 393 

The Eternal Percy Bysshe Shelley. 400 

Mutability Edmund Spenser. 401 

Part XI. — Scattered Leaves. 

Music in Camp John R. Thompson. 405 

Before the Gate William Dean Howells. 407 

Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt. 408 

Cleon and I Charles Mackay. 408 

The Age of Wisdom . . William Makepeace Thackeray. 409 

The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes. 409 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold. 411 

Daniel Gray Josiah Gilbert Holland. 412 

1 1 m Growing 0"d John Godfrey Scixe. 414 

"Wild Oats" Charles King shy. 415 



CONTENTS. XV11 

PAGE 

The Water That Has Passed Anonymous. 416 

The Ivy Green Charles Dickens. 417 

A Hundred Years to Come . . William Goldsmith Brown. 418 

Vertue George Herbert. 418 

Where Lies the Land Arthur Hugh Clough. 419 

A Farewell Charles Kingsleg. 419 

After the Ball Nora Perry. 420 

The Old Sergeant Forceythe Willson. 421 

The Place Where Man Should Die . . Michael Joseph Barry. 426 

The Bells of Shandon . . Francis Mahony (Father Prout). 427 

Song- of the Forge Anonymous.' 428 

The Babe Sir William Jones. 430 

A^ pie Blossoms Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 431 

Pictures of Memory Alice Cary. 431 

Woman Eaton Stannard Barrett. 432 

Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe. 433 

Old Time3 Anonymous. 434 

A Woman's Love John Hay. 434 

Fishing Song Rose Terry Cooke. 435 

A Life on the Ocean Wave Epes Sargent. 436 

Alone by the Bay Louise Chandler Moult on. 437 

The Tempest James Thomas Fields. 437 

Lines on Leaving Europe .... Nathaniel Parker Willis. 438 

At Sea John Townsend Trowbridge. 438 

In the Sea Hiram Rich. 439 

Woodman, Spare that Tree . . . George Perkins Morris. 440 

Album Verses Washington Irving. 441 

Waiting John Burroughs. 442 

Life's Incongruities Egbert Phelps. 443 

Equinoctial Mrs. A.J). T. Whitney. 443 

The Mysteries William Dean Hoivells. 444 

Ruth Thomas Hood. 444 

The Late Spring Louise Chandler Moulton. 445 

Thought Christopher Pearse Cranch. 445 

Blindness John Milton. 446 

Night and Death Joseph Blanco White. 447 

The Closing Scene Thomas Buchanan Read. 447 

Endurance . . . Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy). 449 

Outgrown Julia C. R. Dorr. 450 

The Penitent John Keats. 451 

The Aim of Life Philip) James Bailey. 452 

Fame German of Scl tiller. 452 

Mother, Home, Heaven . . . William Goldsmith Brown. 453 

The End of the Play . . . William Makepeace Thackeray. 454 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



American authors are indicated by A. Others are British. The figures in paren- 
theses are dates of birth and death. 



ADAM, JEAN. (1710-1765.) 
Sailur's Wife, The . . 



ADAMS, SARAH FLOWER. 
(1805-1849). 
Nearer, My God, to Thee 
ADDISON, JOSEPH. (1672-1719). 
Immortal Part, The . . . 
ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. 
(A. 1636- 
After the Rain ..... 



Before the Rain 

Three Roses 

ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS 

(Florence Percy ) {A. 1832- 

Bringing Our Sheaves . . . 

Endurance 

Old Story, The 

ALLISON, RICHARD. (1606- 

Cherry Ripe 

AMES, MARY CLEMMER. (^1). 

Peace 

ANDERSON, ALEXANDER. 

Bairnies Cuddle Doon . . . 
ARNOLD, EDWIN. (1832- 

Lord Raglan 

She ana He 

Song of Krishna 

ARNOLD, GEORGE. (A. 1834-1865). 

Alone hy the Hearth .... 

Jolly Old Pedagogue, The . . 

September 

A YTON, SIR ROBERT. (1570-1638). 

I do Confess Thou 'rt Sweet 
BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. (1816- 

Aim of Life, The 

BARBAULD. ANNA LETITIA. 
(1743-1825). 

Life 



BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
(1750-1825). 
Auld Robin Gray 277 

BARRETT. EATON STANDARD. 
(1785-1820). 
Woman 432 

BARR. MATTHIAS. (1831- 

Only aBiby S.ua.l 27 



394 



374 



35 1 

449 
167 

143 



327 
321 
170 

103 

411 

63 

148 

452 



3S6 



PAGE 

BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH. 

Place where Man Should Die 426 
BEATTIE, JAMES. (1735-1805). 

Summer Morn, A 61 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
(1586-ltil ; 1576-1625). 
Take, O Take Thos Lips Away 145 
BEDDOES, " THOMAS LOVELL. 
(180:3-1849). 

How Many Times 148 

BEERS, ETHEL LYNN. 
(A. 1827-18. 9). 

Not One to Spare 35 

BENJAMIN, PARK. (A. 1809-1864). 

Old Sexton, The 293 

BERKELEY, GEORGE. 
(1681-1753). 
Westward the Course of Em- 
pire 192 

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. 
'{A. 1824- 

Dirge for a Soldier 3J6 

BONAR, HORATIU-. (1808- 

Beyond the Smiling and the 

Weeping T69 

How to Live 339 

How we Learn 3-3 > 

Master's Touch, The .... 348 
BOWRING, JOHN. (1792-1872). 

God (from the Russian) . . . 398 
BRAINARD, JOHN GARDINER 
CALKINS. (A. 1796-1828). 
I saw Two Clouds at Morning 176 
BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 
(A. 1820-1872). 
Lawyer's Invocation to Spring 248 
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BAR- 
RETT. (1609-1&61). 

De Profundis 344 

How d > I Love Thee . . . . 152 

My Heart and I 291 

Three Kisses 159 

BROWNING. ROBERT (1812- 

Evelyn Hope 27) 

BROWN, WILLIAM GOLDSMITH. 
(A. 1812- 
Hun Ired Years to Come . . . 41§ 



(xviii) 



LIST OF AUTHOES. 



XIX 



PAGE 

Hills were Made for Freedom 181 

Mother, Home, Heaven ... 453 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
(A. 1794-1878). 

Blessed are They that Mourn 348 

Death of the Flowers, The . . 279 

Evening Wind, The .... 8J 

Future Liie. The 387 

June 57 

BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EGER- 
TON. (1762-1837). 

Echo and Silence 103 

BUCHANAN, ROBERT. (1841- 

" O Mither, Dinna Dee ! " . . 290 

BURNS, ROBERT. (1759-1796). 

Absence 157 

Ae Fond Kiss Before we Part . 152 

Afton Water 149 

Auld Lang Syne 126 

Banks o' uoon 308 

Bannockburn Pj2 

Bonnie Marv 159 

Highland Mary 296 

John Anderson, My Jo . . . 39 

Mary Morison 156 

O My Luve 's Like a Red, Red 

Rose 160 

O Saw ye Bonnie Lesley . . 150 

BURROUGHS, JOHN. (A.) 

Waiting 442 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON 

NOEL, LORD. ( 78S-1824). 

Eternal Spirit of the Chainless 

Mind 2^3 

Fall of Greece, The 182 

Fair Greece ! Sad Relic of De- 
parted Worth, 184 

First Love 151 

Imaginative Sympathy with 

Nature ......... 55 

Nevermore 310 

Night 86 

Ocean, The 79 

Stars 88 

Thomas Moore, To 128 

Thunder Storm in the Alps . 92 

Unreturning Brave, The . . 217 

Waterloo 216 

CAMPBELL, THOMAS. (1777-1844) 

Battle of the Baltic .... 221 

D( .wnfall of Poland .... 181 

Hoh nlinden 218 

Ye Mariners of England . . 215 

CAREY, HENRY. (1663-1743). 

God Save the King 195 

CARLETON, WILL M. (A. 1845- 

New Church Organ, The . . 250 

CARLYLE, THOMAS. (1795-1881). 

Adieu 154 

Heard are the Voices .... 339 

CARY, ALICE. (A. 1820-1871). 

Dying Hymn 372 

Pictures of Memory .... 431 

CARY, PHCEBE. (A. 1824-1871). 

Lovers, The 258 

Nearer Home 391 



PAGE 
CHATTFRTON. THOMAS. 
(1752-1770). 

My Love is Dead 309 

CHAUCER. GEOFFREY. 
(1328-1400). 

Daisy, The 72 

Tree's, Flowers, and Birds . . 68 
CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 
(1819-1861). 
Green Fields of Eng and . . 188 
Say not the Struggle Nought 

Availeth 350 

Where Lies the Land .... 419 
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 
(1772-18:34). 
Hymn Before Sunrise . . . . 82 
COLLINS, MORTIMER. 
(1827-1878). 

Two Worlds 385 

COLLINS, WILLIAM. (1720-1756). 

How Sleep the Brave .... 203 
COLLYER, ROBERT. (A. 1823- 

Saxon Grit 189 

CONSTABLE, HENRY. 
(1560-1612). 

Pain of Love 14? 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY. (A. 1827- 

Fishing Song 43", 

COOLIDGE, SUSAN. (>ee Wool- 

sey, Sarah.) 
COTTON, CHARLES. (1630-1687). 

Invitation to Izaak Walton . 129 
COWPER, WILLIAM. (1731-1800). 

Love of Liberty 179 

Winter 64 

W'inter Evening at Home . . 41 
CORNWALL, BARRY. (See Proc- 
ter, Bryan Waller). 
CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MUL- 
OCK. (1826- 

In Our Boat 105 

Now and Afterwards .... 367 
CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER 
PEARSE. {A. 1813- 
Thought 445 

CRAWFORD, JULIA. 

We Parted in Silence .... 167 

CROSS, MARIAN EVANS LEWES 
(Georne Eliot). (1820-1S80). 

Day is Dying 88 

May I Join the Choir Invisible 365 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 
(1784-1842). 
Its Hame and its Hame ... 42 
CURTIS, G ORGE WILLIAM. 
{A. 1824- 
Egyptian Serenade 108 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 
(A. 1787-1878). 
Immortality 373 

DARWIN, ERASMUS. (1731-1802). 

Ljves of the Plants .... 69 



XX 



LIST OF AUTHOES. 



PAGE 

DIBDIN. CHARLES. (1745-1814). 

Sailor's Consolation, The . . 257 
DICKENS, CHARLES. (1812-1870). 

Ivy Green, The 417 

DOBELL, SIDNEY. (1824-1875). 

Basking 102 

DOB30N, AUSTIN. (1840- ; 

An.elus Song 288 

Cradle. The 288 

Before sedan 295 

Song of Angiola in Heaven . 370 
DODGE, MARY MAPES. (A.) 

Two Mysueries ..... 290 
DORR, JULIA C. R. {A. 1825- 

Outgrown 450 

)OUGLAS. (loth Cent.) 

Annie Laurie 156 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 
(A. 1795-1820). 

American Flag, The .... 193 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 
(1563-1631). 

Parting, A 149 

DUEFERIN, LADY. (1807-1867). 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 316 

DUFFY, SIR CHARLES GAVAN. 

Patriot's Bride, The .... 172 

EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE. 
{A. 1816-1660). 
Farmer Sat in his Easy Chair 34 

ELIOT, GEORGE. (See Cross, Ma- 
rian Evans Lewes.) 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
(A. 1803- 

Concord Hymn 202 

Responses 343 

FAWCETT, EDGAR. (A. 1847- 

Bird of Passage 171 

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. 
(A. 1817-1881). 

In a Strange Land 44 

Nantucket Skipper, The . . 259 

Tempest, The 437 

FINCH, FRANCIS MILES. 
(A. 1827- 
Blue and the Gray, The . . 324 
FORD, JOHN. (1586-1639). 

Fancies 99 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS. 
(A. 1826-1864). 
Mv Old Kentucky Home . . 43 
Old Folks at Home .... 42 
GAY, JOHN. (1688-1732). 

Song 140 

GILDER, RICHARD WATSON. 
(A. 1844- 

Dawn 84 

GLYNDON, HOWARD. (See Bed- 

d n, Laura C.) 
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 
(1728-1774). 
Better Country, The .... 187 



PAGE 

Elegv on the Death of a Mad 

Dog 262 

National Decay 183 

GOODALE, DORA REED. {A. 1866- 

Ripe Grain 357 

GOODALE, ELAINE. (A. 1863- 

Ashes of Roses 280 

GRAY, THOMAS. (1716-1771). 

Elegv Written in a Country 
Churchyard 299 

GRISWOLD. H.VTTIE TYNG. (A.) 

Under the Daisies . . . * . 305 

HALLECK. FITZ-GREENE. 
(A. 1795-1867). 
Joseph Rodman Drake . . . 129 
Patriot's Death, The .... 191 

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM. 
(A. 1829-1868). 
Janette's Hair 162 

HAMILTON, WILLIAM. 
(1701-1754). 
Braes of Yarrow 318 

HART \ BRET. (A. 1837- 

Dickens in Camp 329 

Society upon the Stanislaus . 265 

HAY, JOHN. (A. 1839- 

Woman's Love, A 434 

HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. 
{A. 1831- 
Love Scorns Degrees .... 170 
Pre-Existence 116 

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA. 
(1793-1835). 
Graves of a Household ... 48 

Hour of Death, The 313 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 203 

HERBERT, GEORGE. (1593-1633). 

Vertue 418 

HERR'CK, ROBERT. (1591-1674). 

Julia 144 

Violets 7J 

HOGG, JAMES. (1770-1835). 

Love is Like a Dizziness . . . 243 
Skylark, The 76 

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. 
{A. 1819-1681). 

Cradle Song 28 

Daniel Gray 4U 

Gradatim 311 

Sleeping and Dreaming . . . 119 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 
(A. 1809- 

Last Leaf, The 4C9 

Moore Centennial Celebration 132 

HOOD, THOMAS. (1798-1845). 

Death-bed, The 282 

I Remember, I Remember . . 47 
Ruth . 444 

HOUGHTON, LORD. (--«e m'nes, 
Richard Mo nekton). 

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. 
{A. 1838- 

Be r ore the Gate 407 

Mysteries, The 4±4 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



XXI 



PAGE 

HOWE, JULTA WARD. (A. 1819- 

Battle-Hymn ■ f the Republic . 234 

HOWL AND, MARY WOOLSEY 
(A. 1832-1864). 
Rest 568 

HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859). 

Abou Ben Adhem 408 

Jenny Kissed Me ..... 157 

INGELOW JEAN. (1830- 

Better Way, The 395 

Like a Laverock in the Lift . 27 
Longing for Home ..... -392 

IRVING, WASHINGTON. 
(A. 1783-1859). 
Album Verses 441 

JACKSON, HELEN HUNT. 
(A 1831- 
My Legacy 351 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL. (1709-1784). 

Charles XII. of Sweden ... 184 

JONES, AMANDA T. (A.). 

We Twain 163 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM. (1746-1794 

Babe. The 430 

What Constitutes a State . . 185 

JONSON. BEN. (1573-1637). 

Celebration of Charis, A . . 142 
Shepherd's Love, The ... 141 

KEATS, JOHN. (1795-1821). 

Nature's Del ghts 54 

Ode to a Nightingale .... 78 
Penitent, The 451 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. 
(A. 1779-1843). 
Star-Spangled "Banner, The . 195 

KINGSLLY, CHARLES. (1819-1875.) 

Farewell, A 419 

Sands of Dee 285 

Three Fishers, The 323 

Wild Oa s 415 

KINNEY, COATES. (A. 1826- 

Rain on the Roof 46 

LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. (1780-1845). 

Lucy's Flittin' 306 

LAMB, CHARLES. (1775-1834). 

Old Familiar Faces, The ... 304 

LAMB, MARY. (176.5-1847). 

Choosing a Name 29 

LANIER, SIDNEY. (A. 1842-1881). 

Bat le of Lexington, The . . 201 
Evening Song 168 

LANIER, SIDNEY AND CLIF- 
FORD. (A.) 
Power of Prayer, The .... 263 

LARCOM. LUCY. (A. 1826- 

Hannah Binding Shoes . . . 287 
Strip of Blue, A 115 

LELAND, CHARLES G. (A. 1824- 

Hans Ureitmann's Party . . . 252 

LONGF LLOW, HENRY WADS- 
WORTH. (A 18/7- 
Arsenal at Springfield, The . 239 
Children's Hour, The .... 32 



PAGE 

LOVELACE, RICHARD. 

(1618-1658). 

Althea, To, From Prison . . 141 
LOVER, SAMUEL. (1797-1808). 

RoryO'Moore 245 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 
(A. 1819- 

June 59 

Unreturning Brave, The ... 327 
LYALL, A. C. 

Hindoo's Search for Truth, A . 341 
LYLY, JOHN. <1 553-1600). 

Cupid and Campaspe . . . 143 

LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID. 
(1490-1555). 
Carman's Account of a Law- 
suit, A . . . 249 

LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS. 
(1793-1847). 
Abide With Me 396 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABING- 
TON. (1800-1859). 
Battle of Ivry, The .' . . . . 219 

MACE, FRANCES LAUGHTON. 
(A. 1836- 
Only Waiting 389 

MACKAY, CHARLES. (1814- 

Cleon and I 408 

MAHONY, FRANCIS (Father 
Protjt). (1805-1866). 
Bells of Shandon. The ... 427 
Obsequies o i Dav id the Painter 331) 

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
(1564-1593). 

Passionate Shepherd to His 

Love 146 

MASSEY, GERALD. (1828- 

O Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear 175 
McFARLAND, A. (A.). 

Doctor in Love, The . . . . 248 
McLEAN, KATE SEYMOUR. {A.) 

The Silent Land 370 

MCMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY. 
(A. 1829- 

Carmen Bellicosum .... 233 
MILLER, JOAQUIN. (A. 1841- 

Dreamers 99 

Sierras, The 81 

MILLER, WILLIAM. (1810-1872). 

Willie Winkie 33 

MILNES. RICHARD MONCKTON 

<Lord Houghton). (Ib09- 

Brookside, The 166 

MILTON, JOHN. (1603-1674). 

Blindness 446 

Hail, Holy Light 85 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES. (1771-1854). 

Parted Friends 358 

MOORE, THOMAS. (1779-1852). 

Bird Let Loo-e in Eastern Skies 362 

Cur e on the Traitor . . . 186 

This World is ah a Fleeting Show 36j 



lid, Cl4£A~+J 



XX11 



LIST OF AUTHOKS. 



PAGE 

MORRIS, GEORGE PERKINS. 
(A. 1802-1864). 

Woodman, Spare that Tree . . 440 
MOULTON. LOUISE CHANDLER. 
(A. 1835- 

Alone by the Bay 437 

Late Spring, The 445 

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AU- 
GUSTUS. (1796-1877). 

I Would not Live Alway . . 390 
MULOCK, DINAH MARIA. ( "ee 

Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock.) 
MUNBY, ARTHUR J. (1837- 

Doris 160 

NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY. (1801- 

Pillar of the Clouds, The . . 397 
NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH 

SARAH. (1808-1877). 

We Have Been Friends To- 
gether 127 

O'HARA, THEODORE. 

Bivouac of the Dead .... 283 
O'REILLY. JOHN BOYLE 
{A. 1844- 

At Best 107 

Forever 125 

PALMER, J. W. (A.) 

Stonewall Jackson's Way . . 237 
PARKER, THEODORE. 
(A. 1812-186)). 

The Way, the Truth, the Life . 397 
PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. 
(A 1792-1852). 

Home, Sweet Home .... 41 
PEALE, REMBRANDT. 
(A. 1778-1860). 

Don't be Sorrowful, Darling . 38 

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES. 
{A. 1795-1857). 
Seneca Lake, To 80 

PERCY, FLORENCE. {See Allen, 
Elizabeth Akers) 

PERRY, NORA. (A.) 

After the Ball 420 

Some Day of Days ..... 119 

PHELPS, EGBERT. (A. 1838- 

Life's Incongruities .... 443 

PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART. 
(A. 1844- 
Apple Blossoms 431 

PIATT, SALLIE M. B. (A.) 

Into the World and Out ... 286 
My Babes in the Wood ... 30 

PIERPONT, JOHN. (A. 1785-1866). 
Warren's Address 200 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN. j 

(A. 1811-1849). j 
Annabel Lee ..*.... 433 
Convalescence 105 

POWERS, HORATIO NELSON. 
(A. 182 i- 
Chimney Swallows . . . .109 
Our Sisier 127 



PAGE 
POPE, ALEXANDER. (1688-1744). 

Dying Christian to his Soul . 371 
PROCTER. ADELAIDE ANNE. 
(1825-1864). 
Woman's Question, A ... 174 
PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. 

(BARRY COPwNWALL). 

(1787-1874). 
Life, A 311 

PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. (A.) 

Take Heart 354 

PROUT. FATHER. (See Mahony, 

Francis.) 
RALEIGH. SIR WALTER. 
(■552-16 8). 
Nymph's Reply to the Passion- 
ate Shepherd 147 

RANDALL, JAMES R. (A. 1839- 

My Maryland 235 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 
{A. 1822-1872). 
Closing Scene, The . . . . . 4-17 
Drilting 100 

REALF, RICHARD. (A. 1834-1878). 

Apocalypse 208 

Indirection 103 

My Slain 282 

Old Man's Idyl, An 117 

Vale 3^.8 

REDDEN, LAURA C. (Howap.d 
Glyndon.) {A.) 
Mazzini 188 

RICHARDS, WILLIAM C. {A) 

Rosalie 292 

RICH, HIRAM. (A.) 

In the Sea 439 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. (1830- 

Up-Hill 363 

ROSSETTI. DANTE GABRIEL. 
(1828- 
Blessed Damozel, The .... Ill 

RYAN, ABRAM T. (A.) 

Follow Me 353 

RYAN, RICHARD. (1796-1849). 

Saw Ye t .e Lass 168 

SARGENT, EPES. (A. 1813-1880). 

Life on the Ocean Wave ... 436 
SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. {A. 1816- 

1 'm Growing Old 414 

Kiss Me Softly 164 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. (1771-1832). 
Battle of Flodden, The ... 213 

Border Song 223 

Patriotism 200 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 
(1564-1616). 

Absence 145 

Hark, Hark, the Lark at Heav- 
en's Gate Siugs 146 

Morning 84 

True Love 139 

SHANLEY, CHARLES DAWSON. 
U) 
Civil War 238 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



XXill 



PAGE 

SHELLEY. PERCY BYSSHE. 
(1792-1822). 

Eternal, The 400 

I Arise from Dreams of Thee . 158 

I Fear thy Kisses 171 

Invocation to Nature .... 53 

Love's Philosophy 158 

Night 87 

Ode to the West Wind . . . 9o 

Skylark, To a 7 3 

SIBLEY, CHARLES. 

Plaidie, The 253 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. (1554-1586). 

My True Love Hath my Heart 140 
SMITH, MAY RILEY. (A. 1842- 

Tired Mothers 36 

SMOLLETT, TOBTAS GEORGE. 
(1721- .771). 

Independence 180 

SOULE. JOHN B. L. (A.) 

Wooing 165 

SPENSER, EDMUND. (1553-1599). 

Ministry of Angels 393 

Mont s and Seasons .... 65 

Mutability 401 

Sunrise 84 

Wake, Now, My Love .... 13 J 
SPERANZA. (See Wilde, Lady ) 
SPOFFORD. HARRIET PRES- 
COTT. (A. 1835- 

Hereafter 372 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES. 
(A. 1791-1876). 
Family Meeting, The .... 49 
STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE. 
(A. 1833- ■ 

Discoverer, The "81 

Horace Greeley 333 

STILL, JOHN. (1543-1607). 

Jolly Good Ale and Old ... 246 
STODDARD, CHARLES WAR- 
REN. (A.) 
Rhyme of Life, A . ; ... 367 
STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. 
(A. 1325- 

Pearls 165 

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE. 
(A. 1819- 

Violet, The 72 

STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. 
(A. 1812- 

Only a Year 294 

Other World, The 384 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. (1609-1641). 
Why so Pale and Wan, Fond 
Lover? 144 

SWINBURNE. ALGERNON 
CHARLES. (1837- 

Fareweil 335 

SWING, DAVID. (A. 1832- 

Memoi ial Hymn.— J. A. Garfield 356 
TAYLOR. BAYARD. (A. 1825-1878). 

Friend's Greeting, A .... 134 

Song of the Camp 232 



PAGE 
TENNYSON, ALFRED. (1810- 

All is Well 357 

Ask Me No More 152 

Break, Break, Break .... 310 

Bugle Song 108 

Defense of Luc know .... 227 

Departure, The ...... 153 

Northern Cobble'r 2o7 

Of Old Sat F.eedom on the 

Heights 180 

O Swallow Flying South . . 155 

" Revenge," The 2 3 

Separation 157 

Spiritual Communions ... 387 

Tears, Idle Tears 275 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . . 131 

Victor Hugo, To 132 

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKE- 
PEACE. (1811-1863). 

Age of Wisdom, The .... 409 

End of the Piav, The .... 451 

Little Billee 247 

Sorrows of Werther .... 271 

THAXTER, CELIA. {A 1835- 

Song . . . ' 110 

THOM. WILLIAM. (1789-1818). 

Mitherless Bair.i, The ... 314 
THOMPSON, JOHN R. 
(A. 1823-1872). 

Music in Camp 405 

THOMSON, JAMES. (1700-1748). 

Freedom of Nature 54 

Nature in Spring 56 

Rainbow, The 94 

Snow-Storm, The 93 

Thunder-Storm, The ... . 91 

THOREAU, HENRY DAVID. 
(A. 1817-1862). 
Upon the Beach 114 

TIMROD, HENRY. (A. 1829-18.7). 

Decoration Day at Charleston . 325 
Spring in Carolina 58 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND 
(A. 1827- 

AtSea 438 

Summer 52 

WAKEFIELD, NANCY PRIEST 
(A. 1837-1870). 

Heaven 370 

Over the River 088 

WALCOTT, JOHN. (1738-1819). 

Fish, To a 265 

WALLER, EDMUND. (1605-1687).* 

Girdle, A 14^ 

WEBSTER, DANIEL. (A. 1782-1852). 

Memory of the Heart, The . . 125 
WHEELER, ELLA. (A.) 

Gethsemane 349 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 
(1775-1841). 

Night and Death 447 

WHITNEY, MRS. A. D. T. (A. IS24I 

Equinoctial 443 

WILDE, LADY (Speranza). 

Voice of the Poor, The ... 315 



XXIV 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. 

(A. 1807- 

Bayard Taylor 332 

My P aymate 297 

WILDE, OCAR. 

Requiescat 293 

Serenade 169 

WILLIAMS, MARIE B. (A.) 

First Violet, The 70 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 
(A. 1807-1867). 
Lines on Leaving Europe . . 438 
WILLSON, FORCEYTHE. 
(A. 1837-1867). 

Instate 204 

Old Sergeant, The 421 

WINTER, WILLIAM. (A. 1836- 

Golden Silence, The .... Ill 
WOLFE, CHARLES. (1791-1823). 

Burial of Sir John Moore . . 278 
WOOD WORTH, SAMUEL. 
(A. 1785-1842). 
Old Oaken Bucket, The ... 45 
WOOLSEY, SARAH (Susan 
COOLIDGE). (A.) 

In the Mist 113 

When 363 

WOOLSON, CONSTANCE FENI- 
MORE. {A.) 

I, Too 361 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 
(1770-1850). 

Cuckoo, To the 77 

, Daffodils 73 

England 187 

Lucy 302 

Ode on Immortality .... 374 

Rainbow, The 95 

She was a Phantom of Delight 161 
Three Y^ears She Grew ... 3.03 
Varying Impressions from Na- 
ture 55 

We are Seven 307 

World is too Much With Us . 53 



WOTTON, SIR HE^RY. (1568-1 639). 

Happy Life, A 340 

YOUNG. EDWARD. (1684-1765). 

Night 86 



ANONYMOUS PIECES, AND 
TRANSLATIONS : 

All Before ; 6 ' 

Bite Bigger 254 

Claribel's Prayer 280 

Fame (from the Ge man of 

chill r) 452 

French National Hymn (from 

the French of Bog t de Lisle) . 196 
German's Fatherland, The 

(from the German) 198 

Give Me Back my Y'outh Asrain 
(from the German of Gotthe) . 104 

GluggityGlug 244 

Hope, Faith, Love (from the 

German of Schiller) .... P54 
Housekeeper's Tragedy, The . 256 
"I Hold Siill " (from the Ger- 
man) 349 

I Shall be Satisfied 359 

It Might Have Been . ... 311 

John Davidson 260 

No More Sea £83 

No Time Like the Old Time . 44 

Old Times 4.'^t 

Poppi g Corn 255 

Prussiin National Hymn (from 

the German) 197 

Reaper oi Life's Harvest . . 5 55 

Restitution 347 

Song of the Forge 428 

There is No Death 382 

Waly, Waly, but Love be 

Bonny 314 

Water that has Passed, The . 416 
When the Grass Shall Cover 

Me 289 

Who Ne 'er his Bread in Sor- 
row Ate (from the German) . 323 
Winifreda 37 



PART I 



13b tfje jfiresitje, 



(25) 



By the fireside there are old men seafei, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 

Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restcre them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair with stately stairways, 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and comfor\ 
Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces, 

Waiting, watching, 
For a well-known footstep in the passage. 



(20) 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

It 's we two, it 's we two, it 's we two for aye, 
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing 1 , O bonny bride ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, my love ! — what can it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we '11 try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me, thy man ; now the song begins : 
" All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, 
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 



ONLY A BABY SMALL, 

Only a baby small, 
Dropt from the skies; 

Only a laughing face, 
Two sunny eyes; 

Only two cherry lips, 
One chubby nose; 

Only two little hands, 

• Ten little toes. 
(27) 



28 GOLDEN POEMS. 



Only a golden head, 

Curly and soft; 
Onlv a tongue that wags 

Loudly and oft; 
Only a little brain, 

Empty of thought; 
Only a little heart, 

Troubled with nought. 

Only a tender flower 

Sent us to rear; 
Only a life to love 

While we are here; 
Only a baby small, 

Never at rest; 
Small, but how dear to us, 

God knoweth best. 

Matthias Bark. 



CRADLE SONG, 

What is the little one thinking about? 

Very wonderful things, no doubt; 
Unwritten history! 
Unfathomed mystery! 

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 

And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, 

As if his head were as full of kinks 

And curious riddles as any sphinx! 

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
Punctured" by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Oar little nephew will lose two years ; 
And he'll never know 
Where the summers go ; 

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 29 

Spocked with the barks of little souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air? 

What, does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 

Though she murmur the words 

Of all the birds,— 
Words she has learned to murmur well? 

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
See ! he's hushed in sweet repose. 

Josiah Gilbert Holland (Bitter- Street). 



CHOOSING A NAME. 

I have got a new-born sister ; 

I was nigh the first that kissed her. 

When the nursing-woman brought her 

To papa, his infant daughter, 

How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — 

She will shortly be to christen ; 

And papa has made the offer, 

I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her,-— 

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 

Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 

Joan's too formal for a woman ; 

Jane's a prettier name beside \ 



30 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 
Edith's pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books ; 
Ellen's left off long ago ; 
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet 
Are so good as Margaret ; 
Emily is neat and fine; 
What do you think of Caroline? 
How I'm puzzled and perplexed 
"What to choose or think of next! 
I am in a little fever 
Lest the name that I should give her 
Should disgrace her or defame her; — 
I will leave papa to name her. 

Mary Lamb. 



MY BABES IJST THE WOOD. 

I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, 

Than any story printed in your books. 
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder ; 

Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks. 

• Is it a fairy story? " Well, half fairy — 

At least it dates far back as fairies do, 
And seems to me as beautiful and airy; 

Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 

You had a baby sister and a brother, 

Two very dainty people, rosy white, 
Sweeter than all things else except each other — . 

Older, yet younger— gone from human sight ! 

And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever, 
And think with yearning tears how each light hand 

Crept toward bright bloom and berries — I shall never 
Know how I lost them. Do you understand? 

Poor slightly golden heads ! I think I missed them 
First in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way ; 

Bat when and where with lingering lips I kissed them 
My gradual parting, I can never say. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 31 

Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished 

In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss, 
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished, 

For their small sakes, since my most bitter loss. 

I fancy, too, that they were softly covered 

By robins out of apple trees they knew, 
Whose nursling wings in far home sunshine hovered, 

Before the timid world had dropped the dew. 

Their names were — what yours are. At this you wonder; 

Their pictures are your own, as you have seen ; 
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under 

Lost leaves — why, it is your dead selves I mean ! 

Sallie M. B. Piatt. 



"BAIRNIES, CUDDLE DOON." 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
Wi' muckle faucht an' din' ; 
" Oh try and sleep, ye waukrif rogues, 
Your fey ther's comin' in ! " 

They dinna hear a word I speak; 
I try an' gie a frown, 

But aye I hap them up and cry : 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

Wee Jairnie, wi' the curly heid, 

He aye sleeps next the wa', 
Bangs up and cries : " I want a piece ! " 

The rascal starts them a' ! 
I rin an' fetch them pieces — drinks — 

They stop a wee the soun', 
Then draw the blankets up and cry : 
" O weanies, cuddle doon ! " 

B it scarce five minutes gang, wee Rab 
Cries out frae neath the claes : 
" Mither, mak Tam gie ower at ance ! 
He's kittlin wi' his taes ! " 

The mischief 's in that Tam for tricks, 
He 'd baither half the toun; 

But still I hap them up and cry : 

" bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 



32 GOLDEN POEMS. 

At length they hear their feyther's step, 

And as he nears the door 
They draw their blankets o'er their heids, 
And Tarn pretinds to snore. 
"Hae a' the weans been guid?" he asks, 

As he pits off his shoon ; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 
And lang since cuddled doon. " 

And just afore we bed oursels 

We look at our wee lambs; 
Tam has his airm round wee Rab's neck, 

Aud Rab his airm round Tain's. 
I lift wee Jaimie up the bed, 

And as I straik each croun, 
I whisper, till my hairt fills up: 
u O bairnies, cuddle doon! " 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me, 
For sune the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
But coom what will to ilka ane, 

May He who sits abune 
Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald: 
" O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

Alexander Andepson. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

Fiom my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broid hall stair, 

Grive Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 33 

A whisper and then a silence, 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall, 
By three doors left unguarded, 

They enter my castle wall. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 
If I try to escape, they surround me: 

They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine, 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 

In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, O blue-e3^ed banditti, 

Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old mustache as I am 

Is not a match for you all? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



WILLIE WINKIE. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 

"Are the weans in their bed ? — for it's now ten o'clock. 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; 

But here's a waukrif laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

3 



34 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk ! 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums : 
Hey, Wille Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. 

William Miller. 



THE FARMER SAT IN' HIS EASY CHAIR. 

The farmer sat in his easy chair, 

Smoking his pipe of clay, 
While his hale old wife, with busy care, 

Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 

The old man laid his hand on her head, 

With a tear on his wrinkled face; 
He thought how often her mother, dead, 

Had sat in the self-same place. 
As the tear stole down from his half shut eye, 
" Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry! " 

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, 

Where the shade after noon used to steal; 
The busy old wife, by the open door, 

Was turning the spinning-wheel; 
And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree 
Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 

While close to his heaving breast 
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 

Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; 
His head, bent down, 0:1 her soft hair lay: 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day! 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 35 



NOT ONE TO SPARE. 

" Which shall it be ? Which shall it be ? " 
1 looked at John — John looked at me 
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as though ray locks were jet) ; 
And when I found that I must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak. 

" Tell me again what Robert said," 
And then I, listening, bent my head. 

" This is his letter : ' I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 
If, in return, from out your seven, 
One child to me for aye is given.' " 
I looked at John's old garments worn, 
I thought of all that John had borne 
Of poverty and work and care, 
Which I, though willing, could not share ; 
I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
Of seven little children's need, 
And then of this. u Come, John," said I, 

"We'll choose among them as they lie 
Asleep ; " so, walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
Where Lilian, the baby, slept, 
Her shining curls, like gold alight, 
A glory 'gainst the pillow white. 
Softly the father stooped to lay 
His rough hand down in a gentle wav, 
When dream or whisper made her stir, 
And huskily he said, "Not her ! " 
We stopped beside the trundle-bed, 
And one long ray of lamplight shed 
Athwart the boyish faces there, 
In sleep so pitiful and fair ; 
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 
A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

" He's but a baby, too," said I, 
And kissed him as we hurried by. 
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 
" No, for a thousand crowns, not him ! " 
He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 
Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son, 
Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 



36 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Could he be spared ? Nay ; He who gave 
Bids us befriend him to his grave ; 
Only a mother's heart can be 
Patient enough for such as he ; 

"And so," said John, "I would not dare 
To send him from our bedside prayer. ' 
Then stole, we softly up above 
And knelt by Mary, child of love. 

"Perhaps for her 't would better be," 
I said to John. Quite silently 
He lifted up a curl that lay 
Across her cheek in willful way, 
And shook his head ; "Nay love ; not thee," 
The while my heart beat audibly. 
Only one more, our eldest lad, 
Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 
So like his father. "No, John, no, 
I cannot, will not, let him go." 
And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
We could not give one child away ; 
And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed, 
Happy in truth that not one face 
Was missed from its accustomed place ; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 

Ethel Lyxn Beet^ 



TIRED MOTHERS. 

A little elbow leans upon your knee, 

Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch, — 

You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me, 



BY THE FIKESIDE. 37 

That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 

And if some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss this elbow from your tired knee, — 
This restless curling head from off your breast, — 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 

I could not blame you for your heartache then. 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At little children clinging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
If I could find. a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more, — 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
There is no woman in God's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 

Js never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest has flown, 

The little boy I used to kiss is dead. 

May Riley Smith. 



W1NIFEEDA 

Away! let naught to love displeasing, 
My Winifreda, move your care; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood, 

We '11 shine in more substantial honors, 
And, to be noble, we '11 be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; 



38 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 

No mighty treasures we possess; 
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We '11 hand in hand together tread; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly clung! 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! 

And when with envy time transported 

Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
You '11 in your girls again be courted, 

And I '11 go wooing in my boys. 

Anonymous. 



DON'T BE SORROWFUL, BARLING. 

O don't be sorrowful, darling ! 

And don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
Taking the year together, my dear, 

There isn't more night than day. 

'T is rainy weather, my darling ; 

Time's waves they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, my dear, 

There is n't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling, 

Our heads are growing gray ; 
But taking the year all round, my dear, 

You will always find the May. 

We have had our May, my darling, 
And our roses long ago ; 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 39 

And the time of the year is coming, my dear, 
For the silent night and the snow. 

But God is God, my darling, 

Of the night as well as the day ; 
And we feel and know that we can go 

Wherever He leads the way. 

A God of the night, my darling . 

Of the night of death so grim ; 
The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 

Is the gate that leads to Him. 

Rembrandt Peale. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wr" ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true? 

And are ye sure he's weel? 
Is this a time to think o' wark? 

Ye jades, lay by your wheel; 
Is this the time to spin a thread, 

When Colin 's at the door? 
Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 



40 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For there's nae luck about the house, 

There nae luck at a', 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop's satin gown; 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockings pearly blue; 
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 

For he 's baith leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot; 
Gie little Kate her button gown, 

And Jock his Sunday coat; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 

Their hose as white as snaw; 
It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he 's been lang awa'. 

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop 

Been fed this month and mair; 
Mak haste and. th raw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare; 
And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw, 
For wha can tell how Colin fared 

When he was far awa'? 

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air; 
His very foot has music in 't 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again? 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth, I'm like to greet! 

If Colin 's weel and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave; 
And ffin I live to keep him sae 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again, 

And will I hear him speak? 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 41 

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth I'm like to greet. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a'; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman's awa'. 

Jean Adam. 



A WINTER EVENING AT ROME. 

Now stirthe fire and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
Of the great B ibel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 

William Cowper {The Task). 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble there's no j.lace like home ! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gaily that came at my call ; — 

Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all ! 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home ! 

John Howard Payne. 



42 GOLDEN POEMS. 

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. 

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain eountree ! 

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain eountree ; 

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain eountree ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', 
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; 
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, 
An' green it will grow in my ain eountree. 
It 's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain eountree ! 

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save 
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie 
May rise again and fight for their ain eountree. 
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain eountree ! 

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, 
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave ; 
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee, 
u I'll shine on ye yet in your ain eountree." 
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain eountree ! 

Allan Cunningham. 



OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 

'Wat down upon de Swanee Ribber, 

Far, far away, — 
Dare 's wha my heart is turning ebber, — 

Dare 's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation, 

Sadly I roam; 
Still longing for de old plantation, 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb'ry where I roam; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from de old lolks at home. 



BY THE FIKESIDE. 4 

All round de little farm I wandered, 

When I was young; 
Den many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder, 

Happy was 1 ; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dare let me live and die ! 

All de world am sad and dreary, etc. 

One little hut among de bushes, — 

One dat I love, — 
Still sadly to my memory rushes, 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming, 

All round de comb ? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming 

Down in my good old home ? 

All de world am sad and dreary, etc. 

Stephen Collins Foster. 



MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; 

'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 
The corn-top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the bloom, 

While the birds make music all the day; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 

All merry, all happy, ad bright ; 
By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door, — ■ 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 

CHORUS. 

Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! 
We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For our old Kentucky home far away. 

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, 
On the meadow, the hill and the shore ; 

They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 
On the bench by the old cabin door ; 

The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, 
With sorrow where all was delight ; 



o 



44 GOLDEX POEMS. 

The time has come when the darkeys have to part, 
Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 
Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 

Wherever the darkey may go ; 
A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow ; 
A few more days to tote the weary load, 

No matter, it will never be light ; 
A few more days till we totter on the road, 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

Stephen Collins Foster. 



IN A STRANGE LAND. 

Oh to be home again, home again, home again! 

Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill; 
Mother is calling me, father is calling me, 

Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the hill; 

Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, once more to be home again, home again, 

Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill, — • 

Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still? 

James Thomas Fields. 



NO TI3IE LIKE THE OIL TIME. 

Thetce is no time like the old time, when you and I were 
you n of, 

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring- 
time sung ! 

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, 

Bat, oli, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened 
fiist! 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 45 

\ 

There is no place like the old place where you and I were \ 
born ! 

Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the 
morn, 

From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the cling- 
ing arms that bore, 

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us 
no more J- 

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our 

morning days, 
No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise ; 
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, 
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in everv 

fold. / 

There is no love like the old love that we courted in our 

pride ; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side 

by side, 
There a|e blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is 

gone. 

There are no times like the old times — they shall never be 
forgot ! 

There is no place like the old place — keep green the dear 
old spot ! 

There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven 
prolong their lives! 

There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving- 
wives ! 

Anonymous. 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view! — 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hun<r in the well. 



46 GOLDEN POEMS. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure 



For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure — 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yieid. 
How ardent I siezed it, with hands that were giowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing*, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! 

Samuel Woodworth. 



BAIN OJV THE ROOF. 

When the humid shadows hover 
Over all the starry spheres, 

And the melancholy darkness 
Gently weeps in rainy tears, 

What a bliss to press the pillow 
Of a cottage-chamber bed 

And to listen to the patter 
Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart ; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start, 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Now in memory comes my mother, 
As she used long years agone, 



BY THE FIKESIDE. 47 

To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left them till the dawn ; 
Ob, I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
"Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, 

With her wings and waving hair 
And her star-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene angelic pair ! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow, 

With their praise or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And I mind not, musing on her, 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain, 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, 

Whence the tears of rapture well, 
As that melody of nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Coates Kinney. 



J REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away! 



48 GOLDEN POEMS. 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs, where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty side by side, 

They filled one home with glee ; 
Their graves are severed far and wide 

By mount, and stream and sea. 
The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — - 

Where are those dreamers now ? 

One 'mid the forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 49 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 
And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers, 

The last of that bright band. 

And, parted thus, they rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree, 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent-knee ! 
They that with smiles lit up the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth; 
Alas for love, if thou wert all, 

And naught beyond, O Earth ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



THE FAMILY MEETING. 

We are all here, 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled, we are all at home ! 
To-night let no cold stranger come ; 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot, 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle peace assert her power, 
And kind affection rule the hour. 

We're all — ail here. 

We're not all here ! 
Some are away, — the dead ones dear, 
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
Looked in and thinned our little band ; 
Some like a night-flash passed away, 



50 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And some sank lingering day by day ; 
The quiet grave-yard — some lie there, — 
And cruel ocean has his share. 
We're not all here ! 

We are all here ! 
Even they — the dead — though dead, so dear, 
Fond memory, to her duty true, 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How life-like, through the mist of years, 
Each well-remembered face appears ! 
We see them, as in times long past ; 
From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smiles behold, 
They're 'round us as they were of old. 

We are all here ! 

We are all here: 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon may we join the gathered dead, 
And by the hearth we now sit 'round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So in the world to follow this 
May each repeat, in words of bliss, 

We're all — all here. 

Chakles Sprague. 



PART II. 



Nature^ Wtce& 



(51) 



Think me not unkind or rude, 

That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
I go to the god of the wood 

To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
Each cloud that floated in the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide me not, laborious band, 
For the idle flowers I brought ; 

Every aster in my hand 

Goes home loaded with a thought. 

There was never mystery 
But His figured in the flowers ; 

Was never secret history 
But birds tell it in the bowers. 

One harvest from thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
A second crop thy acres yield r 

Which I gather in a song. 



NATURE'S VOICES. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending", we lay waste our powers; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have giyen our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. Great God! I ? d rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 



INVOCATION TO NATURE. 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 
If our great mother have imbued my soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; 
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; 
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns 
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; 
If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes 
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me; 
(53) 



54 GOLDEN POEMS. 

If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 
I consciously have injured, but still loved 
And cherished these my kindred; — then forgive 
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 
No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley {Alastor). 



FREEDOM OF NATURE. 

I caee not, Fortune, what you me deny : 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

James Thomson (Castle of Indolence). 



NATURES DELIGHTS. 

O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight . 

Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling streams ; 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; 

Lover of loneliness and wandering, 

Of upcast eye and tender pondering ! — 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile on us to tell delightful stories ; 

For what has made the sage or poet write, 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 

In the calm grandeur of a sober line 

We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid, 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; 

When it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 



nature's voices. 55 

O 'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles ; 

So that we feel uplifted from the world, 

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. 

John Keats {Nature and the Poets). 



IMAGINATIVE ST3IPATHT WITH 
NATURE. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; this far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast $ 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

Lord Byron (Chilcle Harold). 



VARYING IMPRESSIONS EROM NATURE. 

-I cannot paint 



What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling and a love, 
That had no heed of a remoter charm 
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed: for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 



56 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear — both what they half create, 
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

William Wordsworth {Tintem Abbey). 



NATURE IN SPRING. 



-Who can paint 



Like Nature ? Can imagination boast, 

Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? 

Of can it mix them with that matchless skill 

And lose them in each other, as appears 

In every bud that blows ? If fancy then, 

Unequal, fails beneath the pleasing task, 

Ah, what shall language do ? Ah, where find words 

Tinged with so many colors ; and whose power. 

To life approaching, may perfume my lays 

With that fine oil, those aromatic gales, 

That inexhaustive flow continual round ? 

Yet though successless, will the toil delight. 
Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts 
Have felt the raptures of refining love ; 
And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song ! 
Formed by the Graces, loveliness itse'f ! 
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet, 
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul ; 



nature's voices. 57 

Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed. 
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart : 
O, come ! and while the rosy-footed May 
Steals blushing on, together let us tread 
The morning dews, and gather in their prime 
Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair, 
And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets. 

James Thomson {Spring). 



JUNE. 

I gazed upon the glorious sky, 

And the green mountains round, 
And thought that when I came to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
'T were pleasant that in flowery June, 
"When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton 's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coftin borne through sleet, 
And icy clods above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 
Away! I will not think of these; 
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet, 
And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There, through the long, long summer hours 

The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

Come, from the village sent, 
Or song of maids beneath the moon 

With fairy laughter blent? 



58 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know that I no more should see 

The season 's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow; 
But if, around my place of sleep 
The friends I love shoul 1 comj to weep, 

They might not haste to go; 
Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 

The thought of what has been, 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene; 
Whose part in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills 

Is that his grave is green; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear a^ain his living voice. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



SPUING IN CAROLINA. 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair, 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there 's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of winter in the land, 



nature's voices. . 59 

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season 's dawn ; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature 's scorn, 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth, 
The crocus breaking earth; 

And near the snowdrop 's tender white and green, 
The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass, 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 
If from a beech's heart • 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
" Behold me ! I am May !" 

Henry Timrod. 



JUKE. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in; 
The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us; 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; 



60 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Babbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking; 

'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
'T is only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer, 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best ? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 



nature's voices. 61 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

'Tis the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James Russell Lowell {The Vision of Sir LaunfaT). 



A SUM3IEB 3I0EJST. 

But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliff's above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield, and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; 



62 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 
O for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
To sing thy glories with devotion due. 
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew 
From Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty, 
And held high converse with the godlike few 
Who to the enraptured heart and ear and eye 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody. 

James Beattie (The Minstrel). 



SUMMER. 

Around this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

Oh, softly on yon banks of haze 

Her rosy face the summer lays ; 
Becalmed along the azure sky 
The argosies of cloudland lie, 

Whose shores with many a shining rift 

Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 

Just where the field and forest meet, — 
Where grow the pine trees, tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks, austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 

The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers as they go 
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row ; 
With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
Behind, the nimble youngsters run, 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 
And bright, when summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 



natuke's voices. 63 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 

Quickly before me runs the quail, 

Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells. 

The brooklet rings its tinkling bells. 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 

The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 

And chatters in his leafy house ; 
The oriole flashes by ; and look — 
Into the mirror of the brook, 

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 

Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 

Oh, this is peace ! I have no need 

Of friend to talk, or book to read ; 
A dear companion here abides, 
Close to my thrilling heart he hides ; 

The holy silence is his voice : 

I lie, and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



SEPTEMBER. 

Sweet is the voice that calls 

From babbling waterfalls 
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying ; 

And soft the breezes blow, 

And eddying come and go 
In faded gardens where the rose is dying. 

Among the stubbled corn 

The blithe quail pipes at morn, 
The merry partridge drums in hidden places, 

And glittering insects gleam 

Above the reedy stream, 
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 

At eve, cool shadows fall 
Across the garden wall, 



64 GOLDEX POEMS. 

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning ; 

And pearly vapors lie 

Along the eastern sky, 
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. 

Ah, soon on field and hill 

The wind shall whistle chill, 
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together^ 

To fly from frost and snow, 

And seek for lands where blow 
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 

The cricket chirps all day, 
. " O fairest summer, stay ! " 
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning ; 

The wild fowl fly afar 

Above the foamy bar, 
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning, 

Now comes a fragrant breeze 

Through the dark cedar-trees, 
And round about my temples fondly lingers, 

In gentle playfulness, 

Like to the soft caress 
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 

Yet, though a sense of grief 

Comes with the falling leaf, 
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 

In all my autumn dreams 

A future summer gleams, 
Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 

George Arnold. 



WINTER. 

Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 

Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, 

Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 

Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 

But urged by storms along its slippery way, 

1 love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 



nature's voices. Go 

And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning easj, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease, 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

William Cowper {The Task). 



MONTHS AND SEASONS. 

So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare: 
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres, 
That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare, 
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, 
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours; 
And in his hand a javelin he did beare, 
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) 
A guilt engraven morion he did weare; 
That as some did him love, so others did him fearc. 

Then came the jolly Summer being dight 
In a thin silken cassock coloured greene, 
That was urilyned all to be more light; 
And on his head a girlond well beseene 
He wore, from which as he had chauffed beene 
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore 
A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene 
Had hunted late the libbard or the bore, 
And now would bathe his limbes with labor heated sore. 

Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad, 
As though he joyed in his plenteous store, 
Laden with fruits, that made him laugh, full glad 
That he had banished hunger, which to-fore 
Had by the belly oft him pinched sore: 
Upon his head a wreath that was enrold 
5 



G6 GOLDEN POEMS. 

With e ares of come of every sort, he bore, 
And in his hand a sickle he did holde, 
To reap the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. 

Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize, 
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; 
AVhil'st on his hoary beard his breath did freese, 
And the dull drops that from his purpled bill 
As from a limbeck did adovvn distill; 
Jn his right hand a tipped staffe he held, 
With which his feeble steps he stayed still. 
For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; 
That scarse his loosed limbes he hable was to weld. 

These, marching softly, thus in order went, 
And after them the monthes all riding came: 
First, sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent, 
And armed strongly, rode upon a ram; 
The same which over Helluspontus swam; 
Yet in his hand a spade he also hent, 
And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame, 
Which on the earth he strowed as he went, 
And filled her womb with fruitfull hope of nourishment. 

Next came fresh April, full of lustyhed, 
And wanton as a kid whose home new buds; 
Upon a bull he rode, the same which led 
Europa floting through th' Argolick fluds; 
His homes were gilden all with golden studs, 
And garnished with garlonds goodly dight 
Of all the fairest flowers and freshest buds 
Which th' earth brings forth, and wet he seemed in sight 
With waves, through which he waded for his love's delight. 

Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground, 
Deckt all with dainties of her season's pryde, 
And throwing flowres out of her lap around: 
Upon two brethrens shoulders' she did ride, 
The twinnes of Leda; which on eyther side 
Supported her like to their soveraine queene: 
Lord! how all creatures laught when her they spide, 
And leapt and daunc't as they had ravisht beene! 
And Cupid selfe about her fluttred all in greene. 

And after her came jolly June, array'd 
All in greene leaves, as he a player were; 
Yet in his time he wrought as well as played, 
That by his plough-yrons mote right well appearc; 



nature's voices. 67 

Upon a crab he rode, that him did beare 
With crooked, crawling steps an uncouth pase; 
And backward rode, as bargemen wont to fare 
Bending their force contrary to their face; 
Like thatungracious crew which faines demurest grace. 

Then came hot July, boyling like to fire, 
And all his garments he had cast away; 
Upon a lyon, raging yet with ire, 
He boldly rode, and made him to obey; 
(It was the beast that whylome did forray 
The Nemaean forest, till th'Amphytrionide 
Him slew, and with his hide did him array;) 
Behinde his backe a sithe, and by his side 
Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide. 

The sixth was August, being rich arrayd 
In garment all of gold downe to the ground; 
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely mayde 
Forth by the lilly hand, the which was crown d 
With eares of corne, and full her hand was found; 
That was the righteous virgin which of old 
Liv'd here on earth, and plenty made abound; 
But after Wrong was lov'd and Justice solde, 
She left the unrighteous world, and was to heaven extold. 

Next him September marched eeke on foote; 
Yet was he heavy laden with the spoyle 
Of harvests riches, which he made his boot, 
And him enricht with bounty of the soyle: 
In his one hand, as fit for harvests toyle, 
He held a knife-hook; and in the other hand 
A paire of waights, with which he did assoyle 
Both more and lesse, where it in doubt did stand, 
And equalle gave to each as Justice duly scann'd. 

Then came October full of merry glee ; 
For yet his noule was totty of the must, 
Which he was treading in the wine-fat's see, 
And of the joyous oyle, whose gentle gust 
Made him so f rollick and so full of lust ; 
Upon a dreadful scorpion he did ride, 
The same which by Dianae's doom unjust 
Slew 2;reat Orion ; and eeke by his side 
He had his ploughing-share and coulter ready tyde. 

Next was November ; he full grosse and fat 

As fed with lard, and that right well might seem, 



68 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For he had been a fatting hogs of late r 
That yet his browes with sweat did reeke and steam, 
And yet the season was full sharp and breem *. 
In planting eeke he took no small delight. 
Whereon he rode, not easie was to deeme ; 
For it a dreadful centaure was in sight, 
The seed of Saturne and faire Nais, Chiron night. 

And after him came next the chill December; 
Yet he, through merry feasting which he made, 
And great bonfires, did not the cold remember, 
His Saviour's birth his mind so much did glad. 
Upon a shaggy-bearded goat he rode, 
The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years 
They say was nourisht by th' Ia?an mayd; 
And in his hand a broad deepe bowl he beares, 
Of which be freely drinks an health to all his peeres. 

Then came old January, wrapped well 
In many weeds to keep the cold away; 
Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, 
And blowe his nayles to warm them if he may, 
For they were numb'd with holding* all the day 
An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood, 
And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray; 
Upon a huge great earth- pot steane he stood, 
From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane 
flood. 

And lastly came old February, sitting 
In an old waggon, for he could not ride, 
Drawne of two fishes, for the season fitting, 
Which through the flood before did softly slyde 
And swim away; yet had he by his side 
His plough and harness fit to till the ground, 
And tooles to prune the trees, before the pride 
Of hasting Prime did make them burgein round. 
So past the twelve months forth, and their dew places found. 
Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



TREES, FLOWERS, AND BIRDS. 

The bilder oke, and eke the hard asshe, 
The piller elme, the coffre unto caraine, 
The box pipe tree, holme to whippes lache, 
The sailing firre, the cipres deth to plaine, 



nature's voices. 69 

The shooter ewe, the aspe for shaftes plaine, 
The olive of peace, and eke the dronken vine, 
The victor palme, the laurer too devine. 

A garden wall saw I, full of blossomed bowis, 
Upon a river, in a grene mede, 
There as sweetnesse evermore inough is, 
With floures white, blewe, yelowe and rede. 
And cold welle streames, nothing dede, 
That swommen full of smale fishes light, 
With finnes rede, and scales silver bright. 

On every bough the birdes heard I sing, 

With voice of angell in hir armonie, 

That busied hem, hir birdes forth to bring ; 

The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie, 

And further all about I gan espie, 

The dredeful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind, 

Squirrels, and beastes small of gentle kind. 

Of instruments of stringes in accorde, 
Heard I so play a ravishing swetnesse, 
That God, that maker is of all and Lorde, 
Ne heard never better, as I gesse ; 
Therewith a wind, unneth it might be lesse, 
Made in the leaves grene a noise soft, 
Accordant to the foules song on loft. 

Geoffrey Chauceb (The Parlement of Foules). 



LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 

How snowdrops cold and blue-eyed harebells blend 
Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they bend, 
The love-sick violet and the primrose pale 
Bow their sweet heads and whisper to the gale; 
With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, 
And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. 
How the young rose, in beauty 's damask pride, 
Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride; 
With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet, 
Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet! 
Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle rill; 
Hush, whispering winds; ye rustling leaves, be still; 



70 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Rest, silver butterflies, jour quivering wings; 
Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings; 
Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, 
Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl; 
Glitter, ye glowworms, on your mossy beds; 
Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads; 
Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells; 
Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells! 

Erasmus Darwin {The Botanic Garden). 



VIOLETS. 

Welcome, maids of honor! 

You doe bring 

In the spring, 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many 

Fresh and^faire; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y 'are the maiden posies, 

And so grac 't, 

To be plac't 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected, 

By and by 

Ye doe lie, 
Poore girles! neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



THE FIRST VIOLET. 

Matted with yellow grass the fields lie bare, 

Wind-swept and bleak, and desolate with rain; 
Through misty distances, the leafless trees 

Stretch gaunt, bare arms, and writhe as if in pain; 
And, save the fitful sobbing of the wind, 

No sound, no life in all this lonesome waste. 
Oh hopeless day, that ever thou wert born ! 

Pass on ! pass on ! and to thine ending haste. 



nature's voices. 71 

Pass on ! — for never in the count of Time 

Came day to me more full of evil things; 
Old memories of loss, of death, and pain, 

Start from their sleep and wound with freshest stints; 
And here I stand alone, dear God, alone, 

A pitiless grey sky above my head; 
Below .... ah! what is this ? Thou fairest flower, 

What dost thou here upon this death- cold bed ? 

Blue, bright as hope, or rifts in summer clouds, 

Fresh, pure, unsmirched by stain of rain or clay, 
Thou dream of radiant suns, of soft spring skies, 

What dost thou here, mocked by this dismal day ? 
But yet methinks a light born of thy grace 

Pierces the gloom, as morning pierces night; 
Sweet messenger, hast thou some sign for me ? 

Some blest Evangel, if I read aright ? 

The waking pulse of Nature throbs in thee, 

And through the ice-bound mould, so grim and bare, 
Thy tender shoots have pierced, thy blooms unfold, 

Amidst this sullen waste the one thing fair; 
So delicate, so frail, and yet so strong 

To bear the gracious message of the spring; 
Herald of life which underlies all death, 

We dimly read the riddle that you bring. 

The violet droops within this bitter blast 

(All first great truths the martyr's crown must bear). 
Blow wind, fall snow, we know no shroud can still 

The life which stirs beneath this frozen air. 
Dear God ! I read upon this petaled pa^e 

Thy changeless record in the changeful hours; 
Day follows night — Thou turnest blooms to dust, 

But from that tear-wet dust Thou bringest flowers. 

Fairer and purer for the vanished night — 
. The long, lone wintry night when hope was o'er, 
And love stood shivering by some open grave, 
And wrote upon its margin "Nevermore y" 
Blind Love, who could not see beyond the mould 

And watch the new life quicken from decay, 
Who could not trust the Lord who rules the night^ 
To bring the blossoms of some fresh spring day. 

Marie B. Williams. 



72 GOLDEN POEMS. 

THE VIOLET. 

faint, delicious, spring-time violet! 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; 

The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass! 

I would that I were dead! — 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee? 
O vanished joy! O love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be! 

O violet! thy odor through my brain 

H ith searched and stung to grief 

This sunny day* as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmore Story. 



THE DAISY. 

Of all the floures in the mede, 
Than love I most these floures white and rede, 
Soch that men callen daisies in our town ; 
To hem I have so great affection, 
As 1 said erst, whan comen is the May, 
That in my bedde there daweth me no day 
That I nam up and walking in the mede; 
To seene this flour agenst the Sunne sprede, 
Whan it up riseth early by the morow, 
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorow, 
So glad am I whan that I have the presence 
Of it, to done it all reverence; 



nature's voices. 73 

And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, 
And ever shall, till that mine herte die ; 
All svvere I not, of this I will not lie. 

Geoffrey Ciiaucer {Legend of Good Women). 



DAFFODILS. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, ' 
A host, of golden daffodils, 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company ; 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie, 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 



74 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O 'er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew, 



nature's voices. 75 

Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives \ 

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the* twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt, — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields of waves or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after, 
And pine for what is not: 



76 GOLDEX POEMS, 

Our sincerest laughter 

"With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorn er of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness, 
Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy lay and loud 
Far in the downy cloud, 

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing, 
Where art thou journeying ? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
O'er moor and mountain green, 

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms, 



nature's voices. 77 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

O blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice; 
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 

Or but a wandering voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 

Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 

At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy davs 

I listened to; that cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways, 

In bush and tree and sky. 
To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 

Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial fairy place: 

That is fit home for thee. 

William Wordsworth. 



78 GOLDEN POEMS. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 



nature's voices. 79 

Darkling I listen; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fied is that music : do I wake or sleep? 

John Keats. 



THE OCEAN, 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncofnned, and unknown. 



80 GOLDEN POEMS. 



Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, where are they ? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime. 
The image of eternity, the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne like thy bubbles onward: from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold) 



TO SENECA LAKE. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 

And round his breast the ripples break, 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 

The dipping paddle echoes far, 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, 



natuke's voices. 81 

And curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
And see the mist of mantling blue 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below, 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o'er. 

James Gates Percival. 



THE SIERRAS. 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world, 
From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray, 
To where the peaks of Darien lie curled 
In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray; 
The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay 
Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand 
They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay 
The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand 
The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. 

They stand white stairs of heaven, — stand a line 
Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; 
They look upon the far and flashing brine, 
Upon the boundless plains, the broken height 
Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight 
Of time is underneath the ; r untopped towers ; 
They seem to push aside the moon at night, 
To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers 
Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. 

They stand a line of lifted snowy isles, 
High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — 
A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; 
6 



82 GOLDEN POEMS. 

White pyramids of Faith where man is free ; 
White monuments of Hope that yet shall be 
The mounts of matchless and immortal song. 
I look far down the hollow days ; I see 
The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and strong, 
That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng. 

Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone 
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd : 
They look as cold as kings upon a throne; 
The mantling wings of night are crush'd and curl'd 
As feathers curl. The elements are hurl'd 
From oif their bosoms, and are bidden go, 
Like evil spirits, to an under- world; 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, 
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 

Joaquin Miller {By the Sun- Down Seas). 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE 
OF CHAMOUNI 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass: methinksthou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! Bat when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in praj^er 

1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 



nature's voices. 83 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered and the same forever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge — ■ 
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — 
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 
God! Sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 



84 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — ■ 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou 
That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



SUNRISE. 

At last the golden oriental gate 

Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair, 

And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, 

Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair; 

And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. 

Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



MORNING. 

Look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east; 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. 

William Shakespeare {Romeo and Juliet). 



DAWN. 

The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 
A little while a little space made bright. 



nature's voices. 85 

Dark was the night, and like an iron bar 
Lay heavy on the land : till o 'er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a light 
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height 
Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
Rose-colored like the sky. A wmite gull new 
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East 
Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. 
It was as on the opening of a door 
By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold, 
(Its flame yet hidden by the garment's fold) — 
The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean turned 
Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — ■ 
Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 
The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, 
Though white the outer branches of the tree. 
From rose to red the level heaven burned; 
Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 
A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. 

Richard Watson Gilder {The New Dai/). 



SAIL, HOLY LIGHT. 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ! 

Or of the Eternal coeternal beam, 

May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, 

And never but in unapproached light 

Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence in create ! 

Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream, 

Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, 

Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice 

Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 

The rising world of waters dark and deep, 

Won from the void and formless Infinite! 

****** 
For wonderful indeed are all His works. 



86 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all 

Had in remembrance always with delight ! 

But what created mind can comprehend 

Their number, or the wisdom infinite 

That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep? 

I saw when, at his word, the formless mass, 

This World's material mould, came to a heap: 

Confusion heard His voice, and wild Uproar 

Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined; 

Till, at his second bidding, darkness fled, 

Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. 

John Milton {Paradise Lost). 



NIGHT. 

O majestic Night! 
Nature's great ancestor! day's elder-born, 
And fated to survive the transient sun! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe! 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's loom 
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 
In ample folds of drapery divine, 
Thy flowing mantle form; and heaven throughout 
Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august, 
Inspiring aspect!) claim a grateful verse; 
And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 

Edward Young {Night Thoughts). 



NIGHT. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep. 
All heaven and earth are still; from the high host 
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 



nature's voices. 87 

Of that which is of all Creator and defense. 
***** 

And this is in the night — most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Lokd Bykon {Childe Harold). 



NIGHT. 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand, — 

Come, long sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother, Death, came, and cried, 

"Wouldst thou me?" 
Thy sweet child, Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmured like a noontide bee, 
•'Shall I nestle near thy side? 



88 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Wouldst thou me? " And I replied, 
"No, not thee!" 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon, — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



STARS. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven 
That in our aspirations to be great 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 

Lord Byron {Child e Harold). 



DAT IS DYING. 

Day is dying ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 

Requiem chanting to the Day — - 
Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky, 

Earth and heaven blending ; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 
Up to c!oud-land lifting : 

Slow between them drifts the swan, 
'Twixt two heavens drifting. 



nature's voices. 89 



Wings half open, like a flower 

Inly deeply flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying ! Float, O swan, 

Down the ruby river; 

Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 

[The Spanish Gypsy). 



THE EVENING WIND. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice : thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea I 

Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 
And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 

Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, — 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
' Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, 

That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, 

May think of gentle souls that passed away, 



90 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, 
And gone into the boundless heaven again. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more dv,ep; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And soltly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go, — but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

William Gullen Bryant. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 

Pestilence-stricken multitudes; O thou 

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 

With living hues and odors plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere: 

Destroyer and Preserver, — hear, O hear! 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread 

On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 



natuke's voices. 91 



Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. 
* * * 

Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth, 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



THE THUNDER-STORM. 

A boding silence reigns 
Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound 
That from the mountain, previous to the storm, 
Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood, 
And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. 
Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes 
Descend; the tempest-loving raven scarce 
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze 
The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens 
Cast a deploring eye, by man forsook, 
Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast, 
Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 

'T is listening fear and dumb amazement all, 
When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud; 
And following slower, in explosion vast, 
The thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, 
The tempest growls, but as it nearer comes, 
And rolls its awful burden on the wind, 
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more 
The noise astounds; till overhead a sheet 
Of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts, 
And opens wider; shuts and opens still 
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. 



92 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Follows the loosened aggravated roar, 
Enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal on peal 
Crushed horribie, convulsing heaven and earth. 

Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 
Or prone-descending rain; wide-rent, the clouds 
Pour a whole flood; and yet, its flame unquenched, 
The unconquerable lightning struggles through, 
Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls, 
And fires the mountains with redoubled rage. 
Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine 
Stands a sad shattered trunk; and stretched below, 
A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie: 
Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look 
They wore alive, and ruminating still 
In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull, 
And ox half raised. Struck on the castled cliff, 
The venerable tower and spiry fane 
Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods 
Start at the flash, and from their deep recess, 
Wide flaming out, their trembling immates shake. 
Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud * 

The repercussive roar: with mighty crush, 
Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks 
Of Penmanmaur, heaped hideous to the sky, 
Tumble the smitten cliffs; and Snowdon's peak, 
Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load. 
Far seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze, 
And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 

James Thomson (Summer). 



A THUNDER-STORM IN THE ALPS. 

The sky is changed! — and such a change! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

Lobd Byron {Childe Harold). 



nature's voices. 93 



THE SNOW-STORM. 



The keener tempests rise: and fuming dun 

From all the livid east, or piercing north, 

Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb 

A vapory deluge lies, to snow congealed. 

Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; 

And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 

Through the hushed air the whitening- shower descends, 

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes 

Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day, 

With a continual flow. The cherished fields 

Put on their winter robe of purest white. 

'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts 

Along the mazy current. Low the woods 

Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sua 

Faint from the west emits its evening ray, 

Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, 

Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 

The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 

Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 

The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 

Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 

The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 

Which Providence as-igns them. One alone, 

The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 

Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 

In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 

His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 

His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 

Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights 

On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, 

Eyes all the smiling family askance, 

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is; 

Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 

Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 

Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 

By death in various forms, diirk snares, and dogs, 

And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 

Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth, 

With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, 

Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. 

James Thomson {Winter). 



94 GOLDEN POEMS. 

BEFORE THE RAIN. 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 

A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 

Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens^ — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 

To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves; the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind; and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



AFTER THE RAIN. 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 

And on the church's dizzy vane 

The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 

From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely carven, gray and high, 

A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye: 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A square of gold, a disk, a speck: 

And in the belfry sits a dove 

With purple ripples on her neck. 

Thomas Bailey Aldricii. 



THE RAINBOW. 

Thus all day long the full distended clouds 
Indulge their genial stores, and well-showered 'earth 
Is deep enriched with vegetable life; 
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun 
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 



nature's voices. 95 

The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 

The illumined mountain through the forest streams, 

Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 

Far smoking o'er the interminable plain, 

In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. 

Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around. 

Full swell the woods; their every music wakes, 

Mixed in wild concert with the warbling brooko 

Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills, 

The hollow lows responsive from the vales, 

Whence blending all the sweetened zephyr springs. 

Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, 

Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow 

Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds, 

In fair proportion running from the red 

To where the violet fades into the sky. 

Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds 

Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; 

And to the sage -instructed eye unfold 

The various twine of light, by thee disclosed, 

From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy; 

He wondering views the bright enchantment bend. 

Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs 

To catch the falling glory; but amazed 

Beholds the amusive arch before him fly, 

Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds, 

A softened shade, and saturated earth 

Awaits the morning beam, to give to light, 

Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes, 

The balmy treasures of the former day. 

James Thomson {Spring). 



THE RAINBOW. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die! 
The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth 



PART III. 



JDreams antr ^Fancies, 



(97) 



The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For though my lips may oreathe adieu t 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 



(98) 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 



DREAMERS. 

Ah, there be souls none understand, 
Like clouds, they cannot touch the land, 
Drive as they may by field or town. 
Then we look wise at this, and frown, 
And we cry " Fool! " and cry " Take hold 
Of earth, and fashion gods of gold! " 

Unanchored ships, that blow and blow, 
Sail to and fro, and then go down 
In unknown seas that none shall know, 
Without one ripple of renown; 
Poor drifting dreamers, sailing by, 
That seem to only live to die. 

Call these not fools; the test of worth 
Is not the hold you have of earth; 
Lo, there be gentlest souls, sea blown, 
That know not any harbor known; 
And it may be the reason is 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 

Joaquin Miller {Up the Nile). 



fancies: 

Fancies are but streams 

Of vain pleasure; 
They who by their dreams 
True joys measure, 
Feasting, starve, laughing, weep, 
Playing smart; whilst in sleep 
Fools, with shadows smiling, 
(99) 



100 GOLDEN POEMS. 

"Wake and find 
Hopes like wind, 
Idle hopes, beguiling. 
Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them; 
Wake now, awake ! see and taste them ! 

John Ford. 



DRIFTING. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote. 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague and dim 

The mountains swim; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 

With outstretched hands 

The gray smoke stands, 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles; 
And yonder, bluest of* the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 
Where swells and falls; 



DKEAMS AND FANCIES. iOl 

The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With earth and ocean reconciled; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail; 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — • 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows; — 

This happier one, 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 
To rise and dip, 



102 GOLDEN POEMS. 

With the blue crystal at your lip! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise! 

In lofty lines, 

Mid palms and pines, 
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 

Sorrento swings 

On sunset wings, 
Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



BASKING. 

Wheel me into the sunshine, 
Wheel me into the shadow ; 
There must be leaves on the woodbine, 
Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow? 
* . * * * 

My soul lies out like a basking hound — 

A hound that dreams and dozes; 

Along my life my length I lay, 

I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 

I am warm with the suns that have long since set, 

I am warm with the summers that are not yet, 

And like one who dreams and dozes 

Softly afloat on a sunny sea, 

Two worlds are whispering over me, 

And there blows a wind of roses 

From the backward shore to the shore before, 

From the shore before to the backward shore, 

And like two clouds that meet and pour 

Each through each, till core in core 

A single self reposes, 

The nevermore with the evermore 

Above me mingles and closes; 

As my soul lies out like the basking hound, 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 103 

And wherever it lies seems happy ground ; 

And when, awakened by some sweet sound, 

A dreamy eye uncloses, 

I see a blooming world around, 

And I lie amid primroses, — 

Years of sweet primroses, 

Springs of fresh primroses, 

Springs to be, and springs for me 

Of distant, dim primroses. 

Sidney Dobell {Home, Wounded). 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, 
As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 
Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high, 
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy! 
And, lo, she's gone! — In robe of dark-green hue 
'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew, 
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky; 
In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
Not so her sister. Hark! for onward still, 
With far-heard step she takes her listening way, 
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. 
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play 
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill! 
Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges. 



INDIRECTION 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sug- 
gestion is fairer; 

1 1 are is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it 
is rarer; 

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes 
it is sweeter; 

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mas- 
tered the metre. 

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the grow- 



104 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flow- 
ing; 

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he 
did enfold him; 

Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath fore- 
told him. 

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and 
hidden; 

Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bid- 
den; 

Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; 

Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the 
revealing. 

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is sym- 

boled is greater; 
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; 
Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift 

stands the giving; 
Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves 

of receiving. 

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the 

doing; 
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of 

the wooing; 
And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the 

heights where those shine, 
Twin voices and shadows swim star ward, and the essence 

of life is divine. 

Richard Realf. 



GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN. 

Then - give me back that time of pleasures, 
While yet in joyous growth I sang, — 
When, like a fount, the crowding measures 
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! 
Then bright mist veiled the world before me, 
In opening buds a marvel woke, 
As I the thousand blossoms broke 
Which every valley richly bore ma! 
I nothing had, and yet enough for youth — - 
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 105 

Give unrestrained the old emotion, 

The bliss that touched the verge of pain, 

The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion, — - 

O, give me back my youth again! 

(From the German of Goethe). 



IN OUR BOAT. 

Statcs trembling o'er us and sunset before us, 

Mountains in shadow and forests asleep; 
Down the dim river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there 's peace on the deep. 

Come not, pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow; 

Rest sottly faliing o'er eyelids that weep; 
While down the river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there's peace on the deep. 

As the waves cover the depths we glide over, 

So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, 
While down the river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there's peace on the deep. 

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us; 

All whom we love in thy tenderness keep! 
While down the river we float on forever, 

Speak not, ah, breathe not — there 's peace on the deep. 

Dinah Maria Mulock Cpaik. 
V 



CONVALESCENCE. 

Thank Heaven ! the crisis, 

The danger is past, 
And the lingering illness 

Is over at last, — 
And the fever called " Living" 

Is conquered at last. 

Sadly, I know, 

I am shorn of my strength, 
And no muscle I move 

As I lie at full length, — 



106 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But no matter ! — I feel 
I am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly 

Now, in my bed, 
That any beholder 

Might fancy me dead. — • 
Might start at beholding me, 

Thinking me dead. 

My tantalized spirit 

Here blandly reposes, 
Forgetting, or never 

Regretting, its roses, 
Its old agitations 

Of myrtles and roses : 

For now, while so quietly 

Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 

About it, of pansies, — 
A rosemary odor, 

Commingled with pansies, 
With rue and the beautiful 

Puritan pansies. 

Edgar Allan Poe [For Annie). 



ALONE BY THE HEARTH. 

Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 

Sit I alone ; 
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 

Days long agone. 

Saddening it is when the night has descended, 

Thus to sit here, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 

Many a year. 

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory 

Flits to and fro ; 
She whom I loved — but 'tis just the old story: 

Dead, long ago. 

'T is but a wraith of love ; yet I linger, 

(Thus passion errs,) 
Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger — - 

Once it was hers. 



DKEAMS AND FANCIES. 107 

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 

Here, in this room, 
Save I, who, weary, and half broken hearted, 

Sit in the gloom. 

Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, 

Dreary and cold ; 
Over the floor the red fire-light flashes, 

Just as of old. 

Just as of old — but the embers are scattered, 

Whose ruddy blaze 
Flashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet pattered 

In other days ! 

Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, 

Melted away ; 
Often these walls have re-echoed her singing, 

Now hushed for aye ! 

Why should love bring nought but sorrow, I wonder? 

Everything dies! 
Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder 

Holiest ties. 

Years have rolled by ; I am wiser and older — ■ 

Wiser, but yet 
Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, , 

Can I forget. 

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 

Sit I alone ; 
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 

t)&ys long agone ! 

George Aenold. 



AT BEST. 

The faithful helm commands the keel, 
From port to port fair breezes blow ; 

But the ship must sail the convex sea, 
Nor may she straighter go. 

So, man to man ; in fair accord, 

On thought and will the winds mav wait ; 
But the world will bend the passing word, 

Though its shortest course be straight. 



108 GOLDEN POEMS. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be ; 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



BUGLE-SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill, or field, or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson [The Princess). 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 

Sing again the song you sung 
When we were together young, 
"When there were but you and I 
Underneath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
Though I know that nevermore 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together young. 

George William Curtis. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 109 

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 

I slept in an old homestead by the sea : 

And in their chimney nest, 
At night the swallows told home-lore to me, 

As to a friendly guest. 

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, 

From many glossy throats, 
Was all the voice; and yet its accents had 

A poem's golden notes. 

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, 

And sounds of festal cheer, 
And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, 

Were breathed into mine ear; 

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung, 

The heart's melodious bloom; 
And histories, whose perfumes long have clung 

About each hallowed room. 

I heard the dream of lovers, as they found 

At last their hour of bliss, 
And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned 

In one heart-healing kiss. 

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew 

To sons and daughters fair; 
And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, 

And sobs of secret prayer. 

I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail 

Into the sapphire sky, 
And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, 

As the swift ships went by; 

And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low 

About the sufferer's bed, 
And what is uttered when the stricken know 

That the dear one is dead; 

And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light. 

Muse with transfigured face; 
And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, 

The pillow's empty place; 

And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path 

In youth had gone apart, 
But to each other brought life's aftermath, 

With uncorroded heart. 



110 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The music of the seasons touched the strain, 

Bird- joy and laugh of flowers, 
The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain, 

Snow storm and sunny showers; 

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns 

And gropes in regions dim, 
Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns 

Its perfect life in Him. 

So, thinking of the Master and his tears, 

And how the birds are kept, 
I sank in arms that folded me from fears, 

And like an infant, slept. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



SOJSTG, 

We sail toward evening's lonely star, 

That trembles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar 

Burnt with dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west ; 
How sweet to watch its splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed ! 

The soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 

To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer; 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Light-houses kindle far and near, 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 
In deep refreshment, thou and I, 

Wave- cradled thus, and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea ; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even, 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
Oh, realize the moment's charm, 

Thou dearest ! We are at life's best, 
Folded in God's encircling arm, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed ! 

Celia Thaxter. 



DEEAMS AND FANCIES. Ill 

THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 

"What though I sing no other song? 

What though I speak no other word? — 
Is silence shame? Is patience wrong? — 

At least, one song of mine was heard: 

One echo from the mountain air, 

One ocean murmur, glad and free — 

One sign that nothing grand or fair 
In all this world was lost to me. 

I will not wake the sleeping lyre; 

I will not strain the chords of thought; 
The sweetest fruit of all desire 

Comes its own way, and comes unsought. 

Though all the bards of earth were dead, 

And all their music passed away, 
What Nature wishes should be said 

She '11 find the rightful voice to say! 

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf, 

The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 
And all we know of bliss or grief 

She speaks in forms that cannot die. 

The mountain-peaks that shine afar, 

The silent star, the pathless sea, 
Are living signs of all we are, 

And types of all we hope to be. 

William Wisteh. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even ; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service neatly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 



112 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Her seemed she scarce bad been a day 

One of* God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge; 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly, some of her new friends 

Amid their loving games 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 
Time like a pulse shake fierce 

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 
Within the gulf to pierce 

The path ; and now she spoke as when 
The stars sang in their spheres. 

3JC 5j% 5}C m 

" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
"Have I not prayed in heaven? — on earth, 
Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength? - 

And shall I feel afraid? " 
* * * * * 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. lli 



She gazed and listened, and then said, 

Less sad of speech than mild, — 
" All this is when he comes." She ceased. 

The light thrilled toward her, filled 
With angels in strong level flight. 

Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 

Was vague in distant spheres ; 
And then she cast her arms along 

The golden barriers, 
And laid her face between her hands, 

And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



IJST THE MIST. 

Sitting all day in a silver mist, 
In silver silence all the day, 
Save for the low, soft hiss of spray 

And the lisp of sands by waters kissed, 
As the tide draw.3 up the bay, 

Little I hear and nothing I see, 

Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun ; 
The solid earth is vanished for me, 

And the shining hours speed noiselessly, 
A woof of shadow and sun. 

Suddenly out of the shifting veil 

A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit, 
Flits like a dream — or seems to flit — 

With a golden prow and a gossamer sail, 
And the waves make room for it. 

A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm, — 
. Its diamond cordage cuts the sky 

In glittering lines ; all silently 
A seeming spirit holds the helm, 

And steers. Will he pass me by? 

Ah, not for me is the vessel here ; 

Noiseless and swift as a sea-bird's flight 
She swerves and vanishes from the sight ; 

No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — 
She has passed into the light. 

8 



114 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Sitting some day in a deeper mist, 
Silent, alone, some other day, 
An unknown bark, from an unknown bay, 

By unknown waters lapped and kissed, 
Shall near me through the spray. 

No flap of sail, no scraping of keel; 
Shadowy, dim, with a banner dark, 
It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel 

A hand which grasps me, and shivering steal 
To the cold strand, and embark, — 

Embark for that far, mysterious realm 

Where the fathomless, trackless waters flow. 
Shall I feel a Presence dim, and know 

Thy dear hand, Lord, upon the helm, 
Nor be afraid to go? 

And through black waves and stormy blast 
And out of the fog-wreaths, dense and dun, 
Guided by thee, shall the vessel run, 

Gain the fair haven, night being past, 
And anchor in the sun? 

Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 



UPOJV THE BEACH. 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
As near the ocean's edge as I can go; 

My tardy steps the waves sometimes o'erreach, 
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 

My sole employment 't is, and scrupulous care, 
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 

I have but few companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; 

'Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 

And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. 
Henry David Thoreau. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 115 

.1 STRIP OF BLUE. 

I DO not own an inch of land, 

But all I see is mine — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are, 

They bring me tithes divine — 
Wild scents and subtile essences, 

A tribute rare and free; 
And, more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity, 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 

Great fleets and argosies; 
I have a share in every ship 

Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 

Above the apple trees. 
I freight them with my untold dreams, 

Each bears my own picked crew; 
And nobler cargoes waLt for them 

Than ever India knew — 
My ships that sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes— 

The people of the sky — 
Guests in white raiment coming down 

From Heaven which is close by; 
I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 
So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaimed from gloom, 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing room. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 

Float in upon the mist; 
The waves are broken precious stones — - 

Sapphire and amethyst, 
Washed from celestial basement walls 

By suns unsetting kissed. 



116 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Out through the utmost gates of space, 

Past where the gay stars drift, 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on a vessel swift; 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 

Here sit I, as a little child; 

The threshold of God's door 
Is that clear band of chrj^soprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor, 
The blinding glory of the dome 

I bow my head before; 
The universe, O God, is home, 

In height or depth to me; 
Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be; 
Glad, when is opened to my need 

Some sea-like glimpse of Thee. 

Lucy Larcom . 



PRE-EXISTENCE, 

While sauntering through the crowded street, 
Some half-remembered face I meet, 

Albeit upon no mortal shore 

That face, methinks, has smiled before. 

Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
I tremble at some tender song- 
Set to an air whose golden bars 
1 must have heard in other stars. 

In sacred aisles I pause to share 
The blessing of a priestly prayer, — 

When the whole scene which greets mine e3 T es 
In some strange mode I recognize 

As one whose every mystic part 
I feel prefigured in my heart. 

At sunset, as I calmly stand, 
A stranger on an alien strand, 

Familiar as my childhood's home 

Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 117 

One sails toward me o'er the bay, 
And what he comes to do and say 

I can foretell. A prescient lore 
Springs from some life outlived of yore. 

O swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
Of deep soul-knowledge! not as dreams 

For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, 
But oft with lightning certainty 

Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain, 
To make old thoughts and memories plain — 

Thoughts which perchance must travel back 
Across the wild, bewildering track 

Of countless aeons; memories far, 
High-reaching as yon pallid star, 

Unknown, scarce seen, whose nickering grace 
Faints on the outmost rings of space! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



AJST OLD MAN'S IDYL. 

By the waters of Life we sat together, 

Hand in hand, in the golden days 
Of the beautiful early summer weather, 

When skies were purple and breath was praise, 
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, 

And the birds kept tune to the songs which . an 
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, 

And trees with voices iEolian. 

By the rivers of Life we walked together, 

I and my darling, unafraid; 
And lighter than any linnet's feather 

The burdens of being on us weighed; 
And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw 

Mantles of joy outlasting time, 
And up from the rosy morrows grew 

A sound that seemed like a marriage chime. 

In the gardens of Life we strayed together, 
And the luscious apples were ripe and red, 

And the languid lilac and honeyed heather 
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; 

And under the trees the angel walked, 



118 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And up in the air a sense of wings 
Awed us tenderly while we talked 
Softly in sacred communings. 

In the meadows of Life we strayed together, 

Watching the waving harvests grow, 
And under the benison of the Father 

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; 
And the cowslips, hearing our low replies, 

Broidered fairer the emerald banks, 
And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes, 

And the timid violet glistened thanks. 

Who was with us, and what was round us, 

Neither myself nor my darling guessed; 
Only we knew that something crowned us 

Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; 
Only we knew that something bright 

Lingered lovingly where we stood, 
Clothed with the incandescent light 

Of something higher than humanhood. 

Oh, the riches love doth inherit! 

Oh, the alchemy which doth change 
Dross of body and dregs of spirit 

Into sanctities rare and strange! 
My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, 

My darling's beautiful hair is gray; 
But our elixir and precious gold 

Laugh at the footsteps of decay. 

Harms of the world have come unto us, 

Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; 
But we have a secret which doth show us 

Wonderful rainbows in the rain, 
And we hear the tread of the years move by, 

And the sun is setting behind the hills; 
But my darling does not fear to die, 

And I am happy in what God wills. 

So we sit by our household fires together, 

Dreaming the dreams of long ago; 
Then it was balmy, sunny weather, 

And now the valleys are laid in snow; 
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, 

The wind blows cold, — 't is growing late; 
Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, 

I and my darling, and we wait. 

Richard Realp. 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 119 

SOME DAY OF DAYS. 

Some day, some day of days, threading the street 

With idle, heedless pace, 

Unlooking for such grace. 

I shall behold your face! 
Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, 

Or winter's icy chill 

Touch whitely vale and hill. 

What matter? I shall thrill 
Through every vein with summer on that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, 

And for a moment there 

I shall stand fresh and fair, 

And drop the garment care; 
Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack. 

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 't will be — 

How face to face each soul 

Will slip its long control, 

Forget the dismal dole 
Of dreary Fate's dark, separating sea; 

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting, 

The past with all its fears, 

Its silences and tears, 

Its lonely, yearning years, 
Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. 

Nora Perry. 



SLEEPING AND DREAMING. 

I softly sink into the bath of sleep; 

With eyelids shut, I see around me close 
The mottled, violet vapors of the deep, 

That wraps me in repose. 

I float all night in the ethereal sea 

That drowns my pain and weariness in balm, 
Careless of where its currents carry me, 

Or settle into calm. 

That which the ear can hear is silent all; 

But, in the lower stillness which I reach, 
Soft whispers call me, like the distant fall 

Of waves upon the beach. 



120 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Now, like the mother, who, with patient care, 
Has soothed to rest her faint, o'erwearied boy, 

My spirit leaves the couch, and seeks the air, 
For freedom and for joy. 

Drunk up like vapors by the morning sun, 
The past and future rise and disappear, 

And times and spaces gather home, and run 
Into a common sphere. 

My youth is round me, and the silent tomb 
Has burst to set its fairest prisoner free, 

And I await her in the dewy gloom 
Of the old trysting tree. 

I mark the flutter of her snowy dress; 

I hear the tripping of her fairy feet; 
And now, pressed closely in a pure caress, 

With ardent joy we meet. 

I tell again the story of my love, 

I drink again her lip's delicious wine; 

And, while the same old stars look down above, 
Her eyes look up to mine. 

I dream that I am dreaming, and I start, 

Then dream that naught so real comes in dreams; 

Then kiss again to re-assure my heart 
That she is what she seems. 

Our steps tend homeward; lingering at the gate, 
I breathe, and breathe again, my fond good-night. 

She shuts the cruel door, and still I wait 
To watch her window-light. 

I see the shadow of her dainty head 

On curtains that I pray her hand may stir, 

Till all is dark; and then I seek my bed 
To dream I dream of her. 

Like the swift moon that slides from cloud to cloud, 
With only hurried space to smile between, 

I pierce the phantoms that around me crowd, 
And glide from scene to scene. 

I clasp warm hands that long have lain in dust, 
I hear sweet voices that have long been still; 

And earth and sea give up their hallowed trust 
In answer to my will. \ 



DREAMS AND FANCIES. 121 

And now, high-gazing toward the starry dome, 
I see three airy forms come floating down — ■ 

The long-lost angels of my early home — 
My night of joy to crown. 

They pause above, beyond my eager reach, 

With arms en wreathed and forms of heavenly grace, 

And smiling back the love that smiles from each, 
I see them face to face. 

They breathe no language, but their holy eyes 
Beam an embodied blessing on my heart, 

That warm within my trustful bosom lies, 
And never will depart. 

I drink the effluence, till through all my soul 

I feel a flood of peaceful rapture flow, 
That swells to joy at last, and bursts control, 

And I awake; but lo! 

With eyelids shut, I hold the vision fast, 
And still detain it by my ardent prayer, 

Till faint and fainter grown, it fades at last 
Into the silent air. 

My God! I thank thee for the bath of sleep, 
That wraps in balm my weary heart and brain, 

And drowns within its waters still and deep 
My sorrow and my pain. 

I thank thee for my dreams, which loose the bond 

That binds my spirit to its daily load, 
And gives it angel wings, to fly beyond 

Its slumber-bound abode. 

I thank thee for these glimpses of the clime 
That lies beyond the boundaries of sense, 

Where I shall wash away the stains of time 
In floods of recompense; — 

Where, when this body sleeps to wake no more, 
My soul shall rise to everlasting dreams, 

And find unreal all it saw before, 
And real all that seems. 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



PART IV, 



jprtenisijtp antr Sgmpatljg. 

(123) 



The pledge of Friendship : it is still divine, 

Though watery floods have quenched its burning wine. 

Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold — 

The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold — - 

Around its brim the hand of Nature throws 

A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose. 

Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl f 

Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul; 

But dearer memories gild the tasteless ivave 

That fainting Sidney perished as he gave. 

f Tis the heart's current lends the cup its glow, 

Whatever the fountain whence the draught may flow. 

(124) 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY 



FOREVER. 

Those we love truly never die, 
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and death, 

Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love ; and love can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change — • 
A dear communion that will not grow strange; 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears, 

She 's thine unto the end. 

Thank God for one dear friend, 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, 

Through twenty years of death. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. 

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain, 
We keep them in the memory of the brain ; 
Names, things, and facts, — whate'er we knowledge call- 
There is the common ledger for them all; 
And images on this cold surface traced 
Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. 

(125) 



126 GOLDEX POEMS. 

But we've a page, more glowing and more bright, 
On which our friendship and our love to write ; 
That these may never from the soul depart, 
We trust them to the memory of the heart. 
There is no dimming, no effacement there ; 
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; 
Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill, 
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. 

Daniel Webster. 



AULD LANG STJSTE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We '11 tak a cup o' kindess yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae rin about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And here 's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie 's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I '11 be mine ; 
And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

Robert Burns. 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY. 127 

OUR SISTER. 

Her face was very fair to see, 

So luminous with purity:— 

It had no roses, but the hue 

Of lilies lustrous with their dew — 

Her very soul seemed shining through ! 

Her quiet nature seemed to be 

Tuned to each season's harmony. 

The holy sky bent near to her ; 

She saw a spirit in the stir 

Of solemn woods. The rills that beat 

Their mosses with voluptuous feet, 

Went dripping music through her thought. 

Sweet impulse came to her unsought 

From graceful things, and beauty took 

A sacred meaning in her look. 

In the great Master's steps went she 

"With patience and humility. 

The casual gazer could not guess 

Half of her veiled loveliness; 

Yet ah ! what precious things lay hid 

Beneath her bosom's snowy lid: — 

What tenderness and sympathy, 

What beauty of sincerity, 

What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew 

In heaven's own stainless light and dew. 

True woman was she day by day 
In suifering, toil, and victory. 
Her life made holy and serene 
By faith, was hid with things unseen. 
She knew what they alone can know 
Who live above but dwell below. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 

We have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade; 
Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 

In infancy we played, 



128 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Bat coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow; 
We have been friends together, — 

Shall a light word part as now? 

We have been gay together; 

We have laughed at little jests; 
For the fount of hope was gushing 

Warm and joyous in our breasts. 
But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow; 
We have been gay together, — 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been sad together, — 

We have wept with bitter tears 
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which were silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow; 
We have b-^en sad together, — 

O, what shall part us now? 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 



TO THOMAS 3100RE. 

My boat is on the shore, 
And my bark is on the sea; 

But before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for any fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear me on; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasped upon the brink, 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY. 129 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace to thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

Lord Byron. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 
And long, where thou art lying, 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 

Like thine, are laid in earth, 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine, 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow; 
But I 've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free; 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Greene Hat/leck. 



INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, 
Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, 

We pass away the roughest time 
Has been of many years before; 
9 



130 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks 
The chillest blasts our peace invade, 

And by great rains our smallest brooks 
Are almost navigable made; 

Whilst all the ills are so improved 

Of this dead quarter of the year, 
That even you, so much beloved, 

We would not now wish with us here: 

In this estate, I say, it is 

Some comfort to us to suppose 
That in a better clime than this 

You, our dear friend, have more repose; 

And some delight to me the while, 

Though Nature now does weep in rain, 

To think that I have seen her smile, 
And haply may I do again. 

If the all-ruling Power please 

We live to see another May, 
We'll recompense an age of these 

Foul days in one fine fishing-day. 

We then shall have a day or two, 

Perhaps a week, wherein to try ' 
What the best master's hand can do 

With the most deadly killing fly. 

A day with not too bright a beam; 

A warm, but not a scorching sun; 
A southern gale to curl the stream ; 

And, master, half our work is done. 

Then, whilst behind some bush we wait 

The scaly people to betray, 
We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, 

To make the preying trout our prey ; 

And think ourselves in such an hour 

Happier than those, though not so high, 

Who, like leviathans, devour 
Of meaner men the smaller fry. 

This, my best friend, at my poor home, 
Shall be our pastime and our theme ; 

But then — should you not deign to come, 
You make all this a flattering dream. 

Charles Cotton. 



FKIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY. 131 

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few 

Who give the Fiend himself his due, 

Should eighty thousand college councils 
Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-ordered garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine: 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand; 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; 
Where if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 

And on through zones of light and shadow 
1 Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances, 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win; 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is clear to God: 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 



132 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; 

But when the wreath of March has blossomed, 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 

Victor in poesy ! Victor in romance! 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears ! 
French of the French and lord of human tears ! 
Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance 
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers ! 
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years 
As yet unbroken ! Stormy voice of France, 
Who does not love our England, so they say ; 
I know not ! England, France, all men to be, 
Will make one people, ere man's race be run; 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy 
To younger England, in the boy, my son. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



FOB THE 3I00BE CENTENNIAL CELEBRA- 
TION 

(May 28, 1879.) 
I. 
Entchaistter of Erin, whose magic has bound us, 

Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, 
Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us 
That blush into life at the sound of thy name. 

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers — ■ 
I hear the old song with its tender refrain; 

What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers! 
What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain! 



FEIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY. 133 

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision — 
Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room! 

'Tis a morning of May, when the air is Elysian — 
The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom — 

We are clustered arouud the "Clementi" piano — ■ 
There were six of us then — there are two of us now; 

She is singing — the girl with the silver soprano — 
How " The Lord of the Valley" was false to his vow: 

"Let Erin remember" the echoes are calling — 

Through '-The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled — 
" The Exile " laments while the night-dews are falling — 
" The Morning of Life " dawns again as of old. 

But ah, those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence! 

Around us such raptures celestial they flung 
That it seemed as if Paradise breathed its quintessence 

Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung! 

Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted 
As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred, 

Yet still with their music is memory haunted 
And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard. 

I feel like the priest to his altar returning — 

The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there; 

The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, 
And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air. 

II. 

The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving 
In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor, 

And Spring the last tear-drops of May-dew is leaving 
On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore. 

How like, how unlike, as we view them together, 
The song of the minstrels whose record we scan — 

One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather, 
One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan ! 

Ah, passion can glow 'mid a palace's splendor; 

The cage does not alter the song of the bird, 
And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender 

As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard. 

No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces 

Should fright the young Loves from their warm little 
nest, 



134 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces, 

Beats time with the pulse in the peasant-girl's breast ! 

Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing.! 

Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold ; 
Alike, when its musical waters are flowing, 

The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold. 

The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened ; 

Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine ; 
For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened J 

For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine. 

And while the fresh blossoms of Summer are braided 
For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jeweled isle, 

While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded, 
While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile, 

The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted, 
Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the 
shore, 

The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted, 

Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of 



Moore 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



A FRIEND'S GREETING. 

(To J. G. Whittier, on his Seventieth Birthday.) 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for thee, 

Thy natal morning shines: 
Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand to me, 

And let me read its lines! 

For skilled in fancy's palmistry am I, 

When years have set their crown; 
When life gives light to read its secrets by, 

And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year 

On service grand and free, 
The pictures of thy spirit's past are clear, 

And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires , 

In time's lost morning knew, 
Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires 

That from earth's darkness o-rew. 



FRIENDSHIP AND SYMPATHY. 135 

Then wise with secrets of Chaldaean lore, 

In high Akkadian fane; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore, 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 

That Judah's kings betrayed, 
Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees, 

Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah! most piteous vision of the past, 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the lion's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 

The Paynim helm and shield! 
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 

Thy white plume o'er the field. 

Stranp-e contradiction! where the sand waves spread 

The boundless desert sea, 
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head, 

Their dark-eyed chief — in thee! 

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell, 

And Skald by Norway's foam, 
Ere fate of poet fixed thy soul to dwell 

In this New England home. 

Here art thou poet, — more than warrior, priest ; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains, 

These thou wert sent to teach: 
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins, 

Is turned to gentle speech. 

Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven; 

Thy victories remain: 
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven, 

Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pure of freedom and of right, 

Thou had'st thy one reward: 
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight 

The coming of the Lord! 



136 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs, 

Slumbers the blade of truth; 
But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 

The eager hope of youth. 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above: 
Men know thee most as one that loves his race, 

And bless thee with their love! 

Bayard Taylor. 



PART V. 



ILobe. 

(137) 



sad are they who know not love, 

But, far from passion's tears and smiles, 

Drift down a moonless sea, and pass 
The silver coasts of fairy isles. 

And sadder they tvhose longing lips 
Kiss empty air, and never touch 

The dear warm mouth of those they love, 
Waiting, wasting, suffering much! 

But clear as amber, sweet as musk, 
Is life to those whose lives unite; 

They walk in Allah's smile by day, 
And nestle in his heart by night. 



(138) 



LOVE, 



WAKE NOW, MY LOVE. 

Wake now, my Love, awake ! for it is time: 
The rosy Morne long since left Tithons bed, 
All ready to her silver coche to clyme, 
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark ! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies, 
And carroll of Love's praise: 
The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft ; 
The thrush replyes ; the mavis descant playes ; 
The ouzell shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
To this dayes meriment. 

Ah ! my deere Love, why doe ye sleepe thus long, 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' awayt the comming of your joyous make, 
And hearken to the birds love-learned song, 
The deawy leaves among ! 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. 
. Edmund Spenser (Epithalamion). 



TRUE LOVE. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments: love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove; 

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

(139) 



140 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 

William Shakespeare. 



MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given; 

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
There never was a better bargain driven: 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one; 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; 
He loves my heart, for cnce it was his own; 

I cherish his because in me it bides : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney 



SONG. 

At setting day and rising morn, 

With soul that still shall love thee, 
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return, 

With all that can improve thee. 
I'll visit aft the birken bush 

Where first thou kindly told me 
Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, 

Whilst round thou didst infold me. 
To all our haunts I will repair, 

By greenwood shaw or fountain; 
Or where the summer day I'd share 

With thee upon yon mountain: 
There will I tell the trees and flowers, 

From thoughts unfeigned and tender; 
By vows you 're mine, by love is yours 

A heart which cannot wander. 

John Gat. 



LOVE. 141 



A GIRDLE. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what this hath done. 

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer: 

M y j°y> m y g rief ? m y h op?, m y love, 

Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round! 

Edmund Waller. 



THE SHEPHERD'S LOVE. 

Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! 

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow * 

The world may find the Spring by following her 

For other print her airy steps ne'er left : 

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 

Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! 

But like the soft west-wind she shot along, 

And where she went the flowers took thickest root, 

As she had sowed them with her odorous foot ! 

Ben Jon son. 



TO ALTHEA, EBOM PRISON'. 

* 

When love with u neon fined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fettered with her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 
With no allaying Thames, 



142 GOLDEX POEMS. 

Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go Tree, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 

And glories of my king; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
The enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage; 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 



A CELEBRATION OF CHABIS. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty; 
And, enamour'd, do wish, so they might fc 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side, 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth! 
Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother 
Than words that soothe her! 



LOVE. 14 

And from her arched brows such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
Before rude hands have touched it? 
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver? 

Or swan's down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? 

Or the nard in the fire? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! 

Ben Jonson. 



CUPID AND C AMP ASP E. 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows; 

Loses them too, and down he throws 

The coral of his lip — the rose 

Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; 

With these the crystal on his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win; 

At last he set her both his eyes, 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, hath she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas, become of me ! 

John Lyly. 



CHERRY PIPE. 

There is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; 

There cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 



Q 



144 GOLDEX POEMS. 

Those cherries fairly do inclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 

They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow, 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richakd Alison. 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER! 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ! 

Pry thee why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prythee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ! 

Prythee why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do 't? 

Prythee why so mute? 

Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : — 

The devil take her ! 

Sir John Suckling. 



JULIA. 

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew, 

And nothing I did say, 
But with my finger pointed to 

The lips of Julia. 



LOVE. 145 

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where; 

Then spoke I to my girle, 
To part her lips, and shew'd them there 

The quarelets of pearl. 

One ask'd me where the roses grew; 

J bade him not go seek; 
But forthwith bade my Julia show 

A bud in either cheek. 

Robert Herrick. 



ABSENCE. 

From you have I been absent in the spring, 

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 

Hath put a spirit of youth in everything 

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him: 

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 

Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 

Could make me any summer's story tell, 

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: 

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 

Nor praise the deep vermiliion in the rose; 

They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 

Drawn after you; you pattern of all those. 

Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 

As with your shadow I with these did play. 

William Shakespeare. 



TAKE, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY* 

Take, O, take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn, 
And those eyes, like break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ! 
But my kisses bring again, 
Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 

Hide, O, hide those hills of snow, 
Which thy frozen bosom bears, 

* The first stanza of this song is found in Shakespeare's " Measure for Meas- 
ure. - ' 

10 



146 GOLDEN POEMS. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 

Are yet of those that April wears ! 
But first set my poor heart free, 
Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Beaumont and Fletchee. 



HARK! HARK! THE LARK AT HEAVEN >& 
GATE SINGS. 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies;. 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise. 

William Shakespeare (Cynibeline). 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
LOVE. 

Come live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hill and valley, grove and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 
There will we sit upon the rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
There will I make thee beds of roses, 
"With a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; 
A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold; 
A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs. 



LOVE. 147 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 



THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSION 
ATE SHEPHERD. 

If all the world and love were young 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



PAIN OF LOVE. 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold, 

To welcome life, and die a living death, 

To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, 



148 GOLDEN POEMS. 

To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath, 

To tread a maze that never shall have end, 

To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, 

To climb a hill, and never to descend, 

Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, 

To pine for food, and watch th> Hesperian tree, 

To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, 

To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be, 

And weep those wrongs which never creature saw; 

If this be love, if love in these be founded, 

My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 

Henry Constable. 



HOW MANY TIMES. 

How many times do I love thee, dear? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fallen year, 
"Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity: 
So many times do I love thee, dear 

How many times do I love, again? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain. 
Unravelled from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow star 
So many times do I love, again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



I BO CONFESS THOU'BT SWEET. 

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favors are but like the wind, 
That kisses everything it meets. 

And since thou can with more than one, 

Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 



LOVE. 149 

The morning rose, that untouched stands, 
Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells! 

But plucked and strained through ruder hands, 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells; 

But scent and beauty both are gone, 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 



A PARTING. 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part: 

Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 

And, when we meet at any time again, 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 

Michael Drayton. 



AFTOJST WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 

Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills; 

There daily I wander as noon rises high, 

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 



150 GOLDEN POEMS. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Robert Burns. 



<9, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY f 

O, saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her forever; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we, before thee ; 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belang thee; 
He 'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " I canna wrang thee I " 

The Powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee; 
Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely 

That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 

Robert Burns. 



LOVE. 151 

FIRST LOVE. 

'Tis sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

'T is sweet to hear the watch- dog's honest bark 

Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 

'T is sweet to be awakened by the lark, 

Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; 
Sweet is revenge, especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end 

To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 

Against the world; and dear the school-boy spot 

We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love, — it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 

The tree of knowledge has been plucked, — all's 
known, — 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. 

Lord Byron (Don Juan). 



152 GOLDEN POEMS. 

SOW DO I LOVE THEE? 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of each day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



ASK ME J¥0 MORE. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But, O too fond, when have I answered thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed : 
I strove against the stream, and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 

Alfred Tennyson (The Princess). 



AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee; 



LOVE. 153 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — ■ 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fare weel, alas forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring s'ghs and groans I'll wage thee! 

Robert Burns. 



THE DEPARTURE. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold; 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day, 

The happy princess followed him. 

"I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

u O love, 't was such as this and this;" 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, streamed through many a golden bar, 
The twilight melted into morn. 



154 GOLDEN POEMS. 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
■" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 
"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!' 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Oi" vapor buoyed the crescent bark; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark. 

A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? 
" O, seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him. 

Alfred Tennyson {The Day-Dream). 



ADIEU. 

Let time and chance combine, combine, 
Let time and chance combine ; 

The fairest love from heaven above, 
That love of yours was mine, 

My dear, 
That love of yours was mine. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone. 

The past is fled and gone ; 
If naught but pain to me remain, 

I'll fare in memory on, 
My dear, 

I'll fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears m ist fall, mu^t fall, 

The saddest tears must fall ; 
In weal or woe, in this world below, 

I love you ever and all, 
My dear, 

I love you ever and all. 

A long road full of pain, of pain ; 

A long road full of pain ; 
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, — • 



LOVE. 155 

We ne'er can meet again, 

My dear, 
We ne'er can meet again. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow, 

Hard fate will not allow ; 
We blessed were as the angels are, — 
Adieu forever now, 

My dear, 
Adieu forever now. 

TnOxMAS Carlyle. 



SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH. 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou, that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden wood*, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make har 

mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Alfred Tennyson {The Princess). 



156 GOLDEN POEMS. 

MAR Y MORI SON. 

Mary, at thy window be ! 

It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling" string 
The dance gaed through the lio-hted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw; 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yoii the toast of a' the town, 

1 sighed, and said amang them a', 
"Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wiit na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



Robert Burns. 



ANNIE LAURIE* 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 

Where early fa's the dew; 
Where me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise true; 
Made up the promise true, 

And never forget will I; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 

She's backit like the peacock, 
She's breistit like the swan, 

She's jimp about the middle, 
Her waist ye weel micht span; 

Original version, composed previous to 1688. 



LOVE. 157 



Her waist ye weel micht span, 
And she has a rolling eye; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'll lay me down and die. 



Douglas. 



JENNY KISSED ME. 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 
Jumping from the chair she sat in. 

Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in. 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me 

Say I'm growing old, but add — 
Jenny kissed me ! 



Leigh Hunt. 



SEPARATION. 

O days and hours, your work is this: 

To hold me from my proper place, 

A little while from his embrace, 
For fuller gain of after bliss: 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 

And unto meeting when we meet, 
Delight a hundred-fold accrue. 

Alfred Tennyson (In Memorial). 



ABSENCE. 

When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie; 
And now what lands between us lie, 

How can I be but eerie! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

Robert Burns. 



158 GOLDEN POEMS. 

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle: 

Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother. 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



I ARISE FROM BREAMS OF THEE. 

I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how? 
To thy chamber- window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream ; 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art ! 

O, lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 



LOVE. 159 

My heart beats loud and fast : 
O press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last ! 

Percy Byssiie Shelley. 



BONNIE MARY. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
It 's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — 

It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



THREE KISSES. 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

The fingers of-this hand wherewith I write; 

Afid ever since it grew more clean and white,. . . , 

S'ow to world-greetings. . . .quick with its " O, list, " 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 

1 could not wear here, plainer to my sight 

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 

1 have been proud and said, " My love, my own. " 

Elizabeth Barrett Browxixo. 



1G0 GOLD EX POEMS. 

• 0, MY LUVE'S LIKE A BED, BED ROSE. 

0, my Luve's like a red, red rose 
That's newly sprung in June; 

O, my Luve 's like the tnelodie 
That 's sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry; 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns. 



DOBIS. 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden: 

Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers; 

I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, 
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer roses of rare perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder w r ith fearful finger: 
She said, "We linger; we must not stay; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander: 
Behold them yonder — how far they stray!" 

I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore; 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling; 
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more." 

She whispered, sighing: " There will be sorrow 
Bjyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I shall be scolded, and sent away." 



LOVE. 161 

Said I, replying: " If they do miss you, 

They ought to kiss you when you get home; 

And well rewarded by friends and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

" They might remember," she answered meekly, 
''That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild; 
But if they love me 'tis none so fervent; 

I am a servant, and not a child." 
Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 
And love did win me to swift reply: 
" Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind you 
Nor fray nor find you, until I die." 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 

As if debating in dreams divine; 
But I did brave them — I told her plainly] 

She doubted vainly; she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 

Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes, 
And homeward drove them, we two together, 

Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — 

My Doris tender, my Doris true: 
That I, her warder, did always bless her, 

And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 

With love excelling and undefiled; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur J. Muxby. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

11 



1G2 GOLDEN POEMS. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveler between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 

A perfect woman, nobly planned, 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth. 



JANETTWS HAIB,. 

O'l, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 
Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet ; 
For the world to me had no daintier sight 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder white; 
Your beautiful dark brown hair- -my pet. 

Tt was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet ; 
T was a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
'T was a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed- 
'T was the loveliest hair in the world — my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown — my pet ; 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of hair — my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
Revealing the old, dear story — my pet; 



LOVE. 163 

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 

And they matched with your golden hair — my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet, 
When the spring is young, and roses are wet, 
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, 

And they suited your gold brown hair — my pet. 

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'T was a silken and golden snare — my pet ; 
Bat, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, 

With my fingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips and your eyes and your hair — my pet ; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair — my pet. 

Charles Graham Halpine. 



WE TWAIN. 

Oh, earth and heaven are far apart! 

But what if they were one, 
And neither you nor I, sweetheart, 

Had any way misdone? 
When we like laughing rivers fleet, 

That cannot choose but flow, 
Among the flowers should meet and greet, 

Should meet and mingle so, 
Sweetheart — 

That would be sweet, I know. 

No need to swerve and drift apart, 

Or any bliss resign; 
Then I should be all yours, sweetheart, 

And you would be all mine. 
But ah! to rush, defiled and brown, 

From thaw of smirched snow, 
To spoil the corn, beat down and drown 

The rath red lilies low — 
Sweetheart, 

I do not want you so. 



164 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For you and I are far apart; 

And never may we meet, 
Till you are glad and grand, sweetheart, 

Till I am fair and sweet. 
Till morning light has kissed us white 

As highest Alpine snow, 
Till both are brave and bright of sight — 

Go wander high or low, 
Sweetheart; 

For God will have it so. 

Oh, heaven and earth are far apart! 

If you are bond or free, 
And if you climb or crawl, sweetheart. 

Can no way hinder me. 
But see you come in lordly state, 

With mountain winds aglow, 
When I by dazzling gate shall wait, 

To meet and love you so, 
Sweetheart! 

That will be heaven, I know. 



Amanda T. Jones. 



KISS ME SOFTLY. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 

Malice has ever a vigilant ear; 

What if Malice were lurking near? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 

Envy, too, has a watchful ear; 

What if Envy should chance to hear? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When lovers may love with never a fear; — ■ 
Kiss me, dear! 
K : ss me softly and speak to me low. 

John Godfrey Saxe. 



LOVE. 105 

WOOING. 

A little bird once met another bird, 

And whistled to her, "Will you be my mate ?" 
With fluttering wings she twittered, " How absurd ! 
Oh, what a silly pate ! " 

And off unto a distant tree she flew, 

To And concealment in the shady cover ; 
And passed the hours in slyly peeping through 
At her rejected lover. 

The jilted bard, with drooping heart and wing, 

Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs ; 
Telling in sadness to the ear of Spring 
The story of his wrongs. 

But little thought he, while each nook and dell 

With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling, 
That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — 
Half-pitying and half-willing. 

Next month I walked the same sequestered way, 
When close together on a twig I spied them ; 
And in a nest half- hid with leaves there lay 
Four little birds beside them. 

Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop: 

When lover's hopes within their hearts you prison, 
Fly out of sight and hearing ; do not stop 
To look behind and listen. 

John B. L. Soule. 



PEARLS. 

Not what the chemists say they be, 

Are pearls — they never grew; 
They come not from tne hollow sea, 

They come from heaven in dew! 

Down in the Indian sea it slips. 

Through green and briny whirls, 
Where great shells catch it in their lips, 

And kiss it into pearls! 

If dew can be so beauteous made, 

Oh, why not tears, my girl? 
Why not your tears? Be not afraid — 

I do but kiss a pearl! 

KiciiARD Henry Stoddard. 



166 GOLDEN POEMS. 



THE JBBOOKSIDE. 

I wandered by the brookside, 

I wandered by the mil]; 
I could not hear the brook flow, — 

The noisy wheel was still; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm- tree; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid; 
For T listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not — no, he came not — ■ 

The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat one by one 

Each on his golden throne; ' 
The evening wind passed by my cheeK, 

The leaves above were stirred — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind; 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not sp3ak on a word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound I heard. 
Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). 



THE OLD STORY. 

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, 
But often and often will memory go, 
Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, 
Back to the days when I loved you so — 
The beautiful long; ao*o. 



LOVE. 167 

I sit here dreaming them through and through, 
The blissful moments I shared with you — 
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, 
When I was trustful and you were true — 
Beautiful days, but few! 

Blest or wretched, fettered or free, 
Why should I care how your life may be. 
Or whether you wander by land or sea? 
I only know you are dead to me, 
Ever and hopelessly. 

Oh, how often at day's decline 
1 pushed from my window the curtaining vine, 
To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine — 
Type of a message that, half divine, 

Flashed from your heart to mine. 

Once more the starlight is silvering all; 
The roses sleep by the garden wall; 
The night bird warbles his madrigal, 
And I hear again through the sweet air fall 
The evening bugle call. 

But summers will vanish and years will wane, 
And bring no light to your window pane; 
No gracious sunshine nor patient rain 
Can bring dead love back to life again: 
I call up the past in vain. 

My heart is heavy, my heart is old, 

And that proves dross which I counted gold; 

I watch no longer your curtain's fold; 

The window is dark and the night is cold, 
And the story forever told. v 
Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy). 



WE PARTED IN~ SILENCE. 

We parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river ; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, 

We met — and we parted forever ! 
The night-bird sung, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story, 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 



168 GOLDEN POEMS. 

We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling ; 
We vowed we would never, no, never forget, 

And those vows at the time were consoling ; 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 
And my heart grows full of weeping ; 

Each star is to me a sealed book, 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 

We parted in silence — we parted in tears, 
On the banks of that lonely river ; 

But the odor and bloom of those bygone years 



Shall hang o 'er its waters forever. 



Julia Crawford. 



EVENING SONG. 

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 

And mark yon meeting of the sun and* sea: 
How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — 
Ah ! longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 
And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart ; 

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. 
O Night ! divorce our sun and sky apart, — 
Never our lips, our hands. 

Sidney Lanier. 



O, SAW TE THE LASS? 

O, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een ? 
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen, 
Her cheek like'the rose is, but fresher, I ween; 
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. 



LOVE. 169 

The home of my love is below in the valley, 
Where wild- flowers welcome the wandering bee; 
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen 
Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. 

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again ; 
And when the moon shines on the valley so green, 
I '11 welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
As the dove that has wandered away from his nest 
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, 
I '11 fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, 
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 

Richard Ryan. 



SERENADE. 

(For Music.) 
The western wind is blowing fair 

Across the dark iEgean sea, 
And at the secret marble stair 

My Tynan galley waits for thee. 
Come down! the purple sail is spread, 

The watchman sleeps within the town; 
O leave thy lily-flowered bed, 

O Lady mine, come down, come down! 

She will not come, I know her well, 

Of lover's vows she hath no care, 
And little good a man can tell 

Of one so cruel and so fair. 
True love is but a woman's toy, 

They never know the lover's pain, 
And I who loved as loves a boy 

Must love in vain, must love in vain. 

O noble pilot, tell me true, 

Is that the sheen of golden hair? 
Or is it but the tangled dew 

That binds the passion-flowers there? 
Good sailor, come and tell me now, 

Is that my lady's lily hand? 
Or is it but the gleaming prow, 

Or is it but the silver sand? 



170 GOLDEN POEMS. 

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, 

'Tis not the silver- fretted sand, 
It is my own dear Lady true 

With golden hair and lily hand! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! 
This is the Queen of life and joy 

Whom we must bear from Grecian shore! 

The waning sky grows faint and blue; 

It wants an hour still of day; 
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, 

O Lady mine, away! away! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! 
O loved as only loves a boy! 

O loved forever, evermore! 

Oscak Wilde. 



LOVE SCORN'S DEGREES. 

Love scorns degrees ; the low he lifteth high, 
The high he draweth down to that fair plain 
Whereon, in his divine equality, 
Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain ; 
'Gainst such sweet leveling Custom cries amain, 
But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh, 
Breathed passion-wise, doth mount victorious still, 
For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will. 
Paul Hamilton Hayne ( The Mountain of the Lovers) 



A SONG OF KRISHNA. 

I know where Krishna tarries in these early days of Spring, 
When every wind from warm Malay brings fragrance on 

its wing ; 
Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the clove, 
In jungles where the bees hum and the Koil flutes her love ; 
He dances with the dancers, of a merry morrice one, 
All in the budding Spring-time, for 't is sad to be alone. 

I know how Krishna passes these hours of blue and gold, 
When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely hold 



LOVE. 171 

Hand fast in hand, and every branch upon the Vakul-tree 
Droops downward with a hundred blooms, in every bloom 

a bee ; 
He is dancing with the dancers to a laughter-moving tone, 
In the soft awakening Spring-time, when 't is hard to live 

alone. 

Where Kroona-flowers, that open at a lover's lightest tread, 
Break, and, for shame at what they hear, from white blush 

modest red, 
And all the spears on all the boughs of all the Ketuk-glades 
Seem ready darts to pierce the hearts of wandering youths 

and maids ; 
'Tis there thy Krishna dances till the merry drum is done, 
All in the sunny Spring- time, w T hen who can live alone? 
Edwin Arnold (The Indian Song of Songs). 



BIRD OF PASSAGE. 

As the day's last light is dying, 
As the night's first breeze is sighing, 
I send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my thought 
through the distance flying ; 

Let it perch on your sill; or, better, 
Let it feel your soft hand's fetter, 
While you search and bring, from under its wing, love, 
hidden away like a letter. 

Edgar Fawcett. 



I FEAR THY KISSES. 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; 

Thou needest not fear mine; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 

Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 

Thou needest not fear mine; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



172 GOLDEN POEMS. 



THE PATRIOTS BRIDE, 

Oh ! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
When I have seen your sunny eyes 

Grow moist with thought ; 
And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from mine 

Its spell had caught ; 
And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 

But true, methought, 
Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed 
as it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 

For your sweet sake, 
To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — 

Its wonders break ; 
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a 
grander music wake ! 

To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla's shore ; 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts,. like purple birds 

That shine and soar; 
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows 

That Grattan swore ; 
The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me ! to 
sing no more. 

And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name, 
Whose memories are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame ; 
The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the Power, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep 

Was Eire's fame: 
Oh ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend 
we two have lov'd the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still 
Methoujrht did seem 



LOVE. 173 

That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home 

By Dodder's stream, 
The morning smile, that grew a fixed star 

With love-lit beam, 
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. 

For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, 

Or both — dear Wife, 
Your image comes with serious thoughts, 

But tender, rife ; 
No idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife, 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 
To walk through life, 
Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true hus- 
band and true wife. 

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 



I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT 3WBJS r IJS'G, 

I saw two clouds at morning, 

Tinged with the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their course, with silent force, 

In peace each other greeting; 
Calm was their course, through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 

Float on in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea where storms shall cease, 
A purer sky where all is peace. 

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard. 



174 GOLDEN POEMS. 

A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Before I trust my fate to thee, 

Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 

Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge 
to thee? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
Untouched, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole, 
Let no false pity spare the Blow, but in true mercy tell 
me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfill? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither 
and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new and strange? 
It may not be thy fault alone, — but shield my heart against 
thy own. 

Could st thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim, 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake— 
Not thou — had been to blame? 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely 
warn and save me now. 



LOVE. 175 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, 

The words would come too late; 
Yet I would spare thee all .remorse, 
So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I would risk it 
all! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! 

0, lay thy hand in mine, dear! 

We're growing old; 
But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 

That hearts grow cold. 
'Tis long, long since our new love 

Made life divine; 
But age enricheth true love, 

Like noble wine. 

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 

And take thy rest; 
Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 

And make thy nest. 
A many cares are pressing 

On this dear head; 
But. Sorrow's hands in blessing 

Are surely laid. 

O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 

'T will shelter thee. 
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 

On my young tree: 
And so, till boughs are leafless, 

And songbirds ilown, 
We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless, 

Together down. 

Gerald Massey. 



PART VI. 



Hitertg antr patriotism. 



12 (177) 



Two voices are there; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice. 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music. Liberty. 



There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside, 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons imparadise the night; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love- exalted youth: 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation s tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found 
Art thou a man ? — a patriot? — look around; 
0, thou shaltfind, hoive'er thy footsteps roam. 
That land thy country, and that spot thy home! 



(178) 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 



LOVE OF LIBERTY, 

O foe, a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful and successful war, 
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, 
My soul is sick, with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
It does not feel for man, the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own; and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
W^eeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 

(179) 



180 GOLDEN POEMS. 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

William Cowper {The Task). 



OF OLD SAT FREEDOM OK THE HEIGHTS. 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet; 
Above her shook the starry lights, 

She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, 
But fragments of her mighty voice 

Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down through town and field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men revealed 

The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 
Who God-like grasps the triple forks, 

And king-like wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



INDEPENDENCE. 

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, 
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye; 
Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 181 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 

Deep in the frozen regions of the north 

A goddess violated brought thee forth, 

Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime 

Hath bleached the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime. 

What time the iron-hearted Gaul, 

With frantic superstition for his guide, 

Armed with the dagger and the pall, 

The sons of Woden to the field defied 

The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood, 

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow; 

And red the stream began to flow; 

The vanquished were baptized with blood! 

Tobias George Smollett {Ode to Independence). 



THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM. 

When Freedom from her home was driven, 

'Mid vine-clad vales of Switzerland, 
She sought the glorious Alps of heaven, 
And there, 'mid cliffs by lightnings riven, 
Gathered her hero-band. 

And still outrings her freedom-song, 

Amid the glaciers sparkling there, 
At Sabbath bell, as peasants throng 
Their mountain fastnesses along, 

Happy, and free as air. 

The hills were made for freedom; they 

Break at a breath the tyrant's rod; 
Chains clank in valleys; there the prey 
Writhes 'neath Oppression's heel alway: 

Hills bow to none but God ! 

William Goldsmith Brown {Vermont). 



DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

O sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smiie, 
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce huzzars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 



182 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
" O Heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country save ! — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high ! 
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! " 

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm • 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death! — the watchword and reply; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! — ■ 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : — 
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career ; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell. 

Thomas Campbell (Pleasures of Hope). 



THE FALL OF GREECE. 

Clime of the un forgotten brave, 
Whose land, from plain to mountain cave, 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven, crouching slave; 

Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

O servile offspring of the free, — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. i83 

The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame; 
For Freedom's battle, once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page; 
Attest it, many a deathless age; 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die! 

Lord Byron {The Giaour). 



KATIOKAL DECAY. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay: 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made: 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man; 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
His best companions, Innocence and Health; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered: trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 



184 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that Folly pays to Pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Oliver Goldsmith {The Deserted Village). 



FAIR GREECE! SAB RELIC OF DEPARTED 
WORTH. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, 
And long accustomed bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilom e did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait, — ■ 
O, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars name. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 



CHARLES XII OF SWEDEN. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; 
A frame of adamant, a» soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 185 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain; 
No joys to him pacific scepters yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; 
" Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught remain, 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
And ail be mine beneath the polar sky." 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;— 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: 
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait, 
While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; 
He left the name at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

Samuel Johnson {The Vanity of Human Wishes). 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE f 

What constitutes a state? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, — 

Men who their duties know, 



186 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain; 

Prevent the long-aimed blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain, — 

These constitute a state; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks; 

Such was this heaven-loved, isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'T is folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 



A CURSE OA r THE TRAITOR. 

O foe a tongue to curse the slave, 

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 
Comes o 'er the councils of the brave, 

And blasts them in their hour of might ! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugged with treacheries to the brim, — 
With hopes that but allure to fly, 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on the lips. 
His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame; 
May he, at last, with lips of flame 
On the parched desert thirsting, die, — 
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh, 
Are fading off, untouched, untasted, 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 

Thomas Moore (Lalia Rookh). 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 187 

ENGLAND. 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee; she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

O, raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE BETTER COUNTRY. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
His first, best country ever is at home. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Oliver Goldsmith {The Traveller). 



188 GOLDEN POEMS. 



MAZZ1NL 



A light is out in Italy, 

A golden tongue of purest flame; 
We watched it burning, long and lone, 

And every watcher knew its name, 
And knew from whence its fervor came: 

That one rare light of Italy, 
Which put self-seeking souls to shame! 

This light which burnt for Italy 

Through all the blackness of her night, 

She doubted once upon a time, 
Because it took away her sight; 

She looked and said, " There is no light ! " 
It was thine eyes, poor Italy! 

That knew not dark apart from bright. 

This flame which burnt for Italy, 

It would not let her haters sleep; 
They blew at it with angry breath, 
| And only fed its upward leap, 
And only made it hot and deep; 

Its burning showed us Italy, 
And all the hopes she had to keep. 

This light is out in Italy, 

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! 
For her sweet sake it spent itself, 

Too early flickering to its wane- 
Too long blown over by her pain. 

Bow down and weep, O Italy, 
Thou canst not kindle it again! 

Laura C. Redden (Howard Glyndon). 



GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND. 

Green fields of England! whereso'er 
Across this watery waste we fare, 
Your image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 



LIBERTY AIS T D PATRIOTISM. 189 

Dear home in England, safe and fast, 
If but in thee my lot be cast, 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



SAXON' GRIT. 

Worn with the battle by Stamford town, 

Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay, 
Harold the Saxon's sun went down, 

While the acorns were falling one autumn day. 
Then the Norman said, " I am lord of the land: 

By tenor of conquest here I sit ; 
I will rule you now with the iron hand ; " 

But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. 

He took the land, and he took the men, 

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, 

Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen, 
Eat up the corn and drank the wine, 

And said to the maiden, pure and fair, 
" You shall be my leman, as is most tit, 

Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair ; " 
But he had not measured the Saxon grit. 

To the merry green-wood went bold Robin Hood, 

With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, 
Driving the arrow into the marrow 

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way ; 
Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, 

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, 
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, 

This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. 

And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife, 

And Watt the smith his hammer brought down, 

For ruth of the maid he loved better than life, 
And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. 

From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, 
" Our life shall not be by the King's permit; 

We will fight for the right, we want no more;" 
Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit. 



190 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 

From the acorns falling that autumn day, 
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town 

To a nobler stature grew alway; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Standing by law and the human right, 
Many times failing, never once quailing, 

So the new day came out of the night. 



Then rising afar in the Western sea, 

A new world stood in the morn of the day, 
Ready to welcome the brave and free, 

Who could wrench out the heart and march away 
From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, 

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, 
To ampler spaces for heart and hand — 

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering, 

Trusting in God your fathers came, 
Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. 
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, 

And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, 

And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. 

They whittled and waded through forest and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might befall; 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men, 

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. 
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines; 

Great with the rifle and great with the axe — 
Sending their notions over the oceans, 

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. 

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, 
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar, 

But a little too anxious about a good trade; 
This is young Jonathan, son of old John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 
Saxon men all of us, may we be one, 

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. 

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown 
From the acorns that fell on that autumn day, 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 191 

So this new manhood in city and town, 

To a nobler stature will grow alway: 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Slow to contention, and slower to quit, 
Now and then failing, never once quailing, 

Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. 

Robert Collyer. 



THE PATRIOTS DEATH. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death, 

Come to the mother, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

"With banquet song and dance and wine — 
And thou art terrible; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are ^hine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come when his task of fame is wrought; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood- bought; 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck (Marco Bozsaris). 



192 GOLDEN POEMS. 

WESTWARD THE COURSE OF EXPIRE. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame; 

In happy climes the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules, 

Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way; 

The first four acts already past, 
The fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

George Berkeley. 



BANNOCKB URJST. 

At Bannockburn the English lay — - 
The Scots they were na far away, 
But waited for the break o' day 
That glinted in the east; 

But soon the sun broke through the heath 
And lighted up that field o' death, 
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath, 
His heralds thus addressed: — 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front o' battle lour; 



LIBERTY AXD PATRIOTISM. 193 

See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
"Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee! 

"Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? 
Let him follow me! 

By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blow! 
Let us do, or die! 

Robert Burns. 



THE AMEBICAK FLAG. 

W r HEX Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there ! 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure, celestial white 

With streakinjrs of the morning light ; 

Then, from his mansion in the sun, 

She called her eagle-bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

W no rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumping loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of the Sun ! to thee 't is given 

13 



194 GOLDEN POEMS. 

To sruard the banner of the free. 



To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 

And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us; 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 

Joseph Rodman Drake. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 195 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BAN NEB. 

0, sat, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming ? 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 
fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; 

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there., 
O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 

'T is the star-spangled banner ! O, long miy it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave. 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation; 

Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
Praise the power that has made and preserved us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 

And this be our motto, " In God is our trust." 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

Francis Scott Key 



GOD SAVE THE KING. 

(English National Anthem.) 
God save our gracious king, 



Long live our noble king, 
God save the king. 



196 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long" to reign over us, 
God save the king. 

O Lord our God, arise, 
Scatter his enemies, 
And make them fall; 
Confound their politics, 
Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
On him our hopes we fix, 
God save us all. 

The choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour, 
Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with hea t and voice, 
God save the king. 

Henry Carey. 

* 

FRENCH NATIONAL HYMN 

Yb sons of Freedom, wake to glory : 

Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise ; 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary — ■ 

Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
Shall hateful tyrants mischief breeding, 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
Affright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
The avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, 

Which treacherous kings confederate raise; 
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 

And lo ! our walls and cities blaze ! 
And shall we basely view the ruin, 

While lawless force, with guilty stride, 

Spreads desolation far and wide, 
With crimes and blood his hands embruing ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 



LIBERTY A^D PATRIOTISM. 197 

TV avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

With luxury and pride surrounded, 

The vile insatiate despots dare, 
Their thirst of gold and power unbounded, 

To mete and vend the light and air ! 
Like beasts of burden they would lead us, 
Like gods, would bid their slaves adore ; 
But man is man, and who is more ? 
Then shall they longer lash and goad us ? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

O Liberty ! can man resign thee, 

Once having felt thy generous flame ? 
Can dungeons' bolts and bars confine thee. 

Or whips thy noble spirit tame ? 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
t That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield: 
But Freedom is our sword and shield, 
And all their arts are unavailing ! 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th ' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on victory or death ! 

{From tht French of Bo get de Lisle.) 



PRUSSIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM. 

I am a Prussian! see my colors gleaming — 

The black- white standard floats before me free; 
For Freedom's rights, my father's heart-blood streaming, 

Such, mark ye, mean the black and white to me! 
Shall I then prove a coward? I'll e'er be to the toward! 

Though day be dull, though sun shine bright on me, 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be! 

Before the throne with love and faith I'm bending, 
Whence, miklty good, 1 hear a parent's tone; 

With filial heart, obedient ear I'm lending; 
The father trusts — the son defends the throne! 



198 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Affection's ties are stronger — live, O my country, longer! 
The King's high call o'erflows my breast so free; 
I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be! 

Not every day hath sunny light of glory; 

A cloud, a shower, sometimes dulls the lea; 
Let none believe my face can tell the story. 

That every wish unfruitful is to me. 
How many far and nearer would think exchange much 
dearer? 

Their Freedom's naught — how then compare with me? 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be. 

And if the angry elements exploding, 

The lightnings flash, the thunders loudly roar, 
Hath not the world oft witnessed such foreboding? 

No Prussian's courage can be tested more. 
Should rock and oak be riven, to terror I'm not driven; 

Be storm and din, let flashes gleam so free — 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Where love and faith so round the monarch cluster, 

Where Prince and People so clasp firm their hands, 
'T is there alone true happiness can muster, 

Thus showing clear how firm the nation's bands. 
Again confirm the lealty! the honest, noble lealty! 

Be strong the bond, strike hands, dear hearts, with me; 

Is not this Prussia? Let us Prussians be? 

(From the German.) 



THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND. 

Where is the German's Fatherland? 
Is 't Prussia? Swabia? Is 't the strand 
Where grows the vine, where flows the Rhine? 
Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine? — 
No ! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland ! 

How call they then the German's land? 
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scanned 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends? 
Where Styrian toil the iron bends? — 
No, brother ; no ! — thou hast not spanned 
The German's genuine Fatherland. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 109 

Is then the German's Fatherland 
Westphalia? Pomerania? Stand 
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps *, 
Where Weser winds, where D.inu>e sweeps ; 
Hast found it now? — Not yet ! Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, where lies the German's land? 
How call they that unconquered land? 
Is 't where Tyrol's green mountains rise? 
The Switzers land I dearly prize, 
13 v Freedom's purest breezes fanned — ■ 
Bat no ! 't is not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
'T is surely Austria, proud and bold, 
In wealth unmatched, in glory old? 
Oh none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's land. 

Say then, where lies the German's land? 

Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 

Is 't Alsace? Or Lorraine — that gem 

Wrenched from the Imperial diadem 

By wiles which princely treachery planned? 

No ! these are not the German's land. 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land? 
Name now at last that mighty land! 
Where'er resounds the German's tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand! 
That is the German's Fatherland. 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
W r here vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valor lights the flashing eye, 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie, 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand — - 
That is the German's Fatherland! 

That is the German's Fatherland. 

Great God ! Look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand, 

Their Universal Fatherland. 

(From the German.) 



200 GOLDEN POEMS. 

PATRIOTISM, 

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
"Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ? 
• Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well : 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 
Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott {Lay of the Last Minstrel). 



WARJRUJST'S ADDRESS. 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel? 
Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
Will ye to your homes retire? 
Look behind yon ! — they 're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! From the vale 
On they come ! — and will ye quail ? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 
Die we may — and die we must ! 
But, O where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 



LIBEKTY AND PATKIOTISM. 201 

On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 
Of his deeds to tell ? 

John Pierpont. 



THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON. 

Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere! 
Bring all the men of Lincoln here; 
Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle, 
Let Acton, Bedford, hither file — 
Oh, hither file, and plainly see 
Out of a wound leap Liberty. 

Say, Woodman April! all in green, 
Say, Robin April! hast thou seen 
In all thy travel round the earth 
Ever a morn of calmer birth? 
But morning's eye alone serene 
Can gaze across yon village-green 
To where the trooping British run 
Through Lexington. 

Good men in fustian, stand ye still; 

The men in red come o'er the hill. 

Lay dovm your arms, damned rebels! cry 

The men in red full haughtily. 

But never a grounding gun is heard, 

The men in fustian stand unstirred; 

Dead calm, save may be a wise bluebird 

Puts in his little heavenly word. 

O men in red! if ye but knew 

The half as much as the bluebirds do, 

Now in this little tender calm 

Each hand would out, and every palm 

With patriot palm strike brotherhood's stroke 

Or ere those lines of battle broke. 

O men in red! if ye but knew 

The least of the all that bluebirds do, 

Now in this little godly calm 

Yon voice might sing the Future's Psalm — ■ 

The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyes 

Who pardons and is very wise — 



202 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire, 
Fire ! 
The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall; 
The homespuns' 1 anxious voices call, 
Brother, art hurt f and Where hit, John? 
And Wipe this blood, and Men, come on, 
And Neighbor, do but lift my head, 
And Who is viounded? Who is dead? 
Seven are hilled; my God I my God I 
Seven lie dead on the village sod- — 
Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown, 
Monroe and Porter — these are down. 
Nay, look ! stout Harrington not yet dead ! 
He crooks his elbow, lifts his head ; 
He lies at the steps of his own house-door; 
He crawls and makes a path of gore. 
The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed; 
He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed ; 
He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door; 
But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more. 
Clasp, wife, and kiss, and lift the head : 
Harrington lies at his doorstep, dead. 

But, O ye Six that round him lay, 

And bloodied up that April day! 

As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell — 

At the door of the House wherein ye dwell; 

As Harrington came, ye likewise cime, 

And died at the door of your House of Fame. 

Sidney Lanier {Psalm of the West). 



HYMN. 

(Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1876.) 
By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to-day a votive stone ; 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 203 

That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit that made those heroes dare 

To die, or leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 

The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



ETERNAL SPIRIT OF THE CHA1NLESS 
MIND. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind I 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art; 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — - 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — ■ 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Lord Byron {Prisoner of Chillori). 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 



204 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea: 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band: — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil w T here first they trod ; 
They left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



IN STATE. 



O Keeper of the Sacred Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the 
end will be. 

" Lo, through the wintry atmosphere, 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear ; 
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or 
sheeted bier. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 205 

"And on that vast and ho'Iow field, 
With both lips closed and both eyes sealed, 
A mighty Figure is revealed, — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow 
of a shield. 

"The winds have tied the drifted snow 
Around the face and chin ; and lo, 
The sceptred Giants come and go, 
And shake their shadowy crowns and say: 'We always 
feared it would be so !' 

" She came of an heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's grace, 
Like two in one seem to embrace, 
And match, and blend, and thorough-blend, in her colossal 
form and face. 

"Where can her dazzling falchion be ? 
One hand is fallen in the sea ; 
The Gulf Stream drifts it far and free ; 
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths 
resplendently. 

"And by the other, in its rest, 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasped forever to her breast ; 
And of her silver helmet, lo! a soaring eagle is the crest. 

"And on her brow, a softened light, 
As of a star concealed from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white, 
Or of the rising moon behind the rainy vapors of the night. 

" The Sisterhood that was so sweet, 
The Starry System sphered complete, 
Which the mazed Orient used to greet, 
The Four-and-Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at 
her feet. 

"And over her — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal — ■ 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting Canopy and Starry Arch and Shield of all. 

II. 

" Three cold, bright moons have marched and wheeled 
And the white cerement that revealed 
A Figure stretched upon a Shield, 



206 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Is turned to verdure ; and the land is now one mighty 
battle-field. 

"And lo! the children which she bred, 
And more than all else cherished, 
To make them true in heart and head, 
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed 
above the dead. 

" Each hath a mighty stroke and stride : 
One true — the more that he is tried ; 
The other dark and evil-eyed ; — 
And by the hand of one of them, his own dear Mother 
surely died ! 

" A stealthy step, a gleam of hell, — 
Tt is the simple truth to tell, — 
The Son stabbed and the Mother fell : 
And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproach- 
able ! 

" And then the battle-trumpet blew ; 
And the true brother sprang and drew 
His blade to smite the traitor through ; 
And so they clashed above the bier, and the Ni^ht sweated 
bloody dew. 

" And all their children, far and wide, 
That are so greatly multiplied, 
Rise up in frenzy and divide ;■ 
And choosing each whom he will serve, unsheath the sword 
and take their side. 

" And in the low sun's bloodshot rays, 
Portentous of the coming days, 
The two great Oceans blush and blaze, 
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crim- 
son haze. 

" Now whichsoever stand or fall, 
As God is great, and man is small, 
The Truth shall triumph over all : 
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all ! 

III. 

" I see the champion sword-strokes flash ; 
I see them fall and hear them clash ; 
I hear the murderous engines crash : 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 207 



I see a brother stoop to loose a foeman-brother's bloody 
sash. 

" I see the torn and mangled corse, 
The dead and dying heaped in scores, 
The headless rider by his horse, 
The wounded captive bayoneted through and through with- 
out remorse. 

" I hear the dying sufferer cry, 
With his crushed face turned to the sky; 
I see him crawl in agony 
To the foul pool, and bow his head into the bloody slime, 
and die. 

" I see the assassin crouch and fire ; 
I see his victim fall — expire ; 
I see the murderer creeping nigher 
To strip the dead. He turns the head — the face ! . The 
son beholds his sire ! 

" I hear the curses and the thanks ; 
I see the mad charge on the flanks, 
The rents, the gaps, the broken ranks, 
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's 
bridgeless banks. 

" I see the death-gripe on the plain, 
The grappling monsters on the main, 
The tens of thousands that are slain, 
And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and 
brain. 

" I see the dark and bloody spots, 
The crowded rooms and crowded cots, 
The bleaching bones, the battle blots, — 
And writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me- 
nots. 

" I see the gorged prison-den, 
The dead-line and the pent-up pen, 
The thousands quartered in the fen, 
The living-deaths of skin and bone that were the goodly 
shapes of men. 

" And still the bloody dew must fall ! 
And His great Darkness with the Pall 
Of His dread Judgment cover all, 
Till the Dead Nation rise transform 2d by Truth to tri- 
umph over all I 



208 GOLDEN POEMS. 

"And last— and last I see— The Deed." 
Tims saith the Keeper of the Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the 
Land and Sea. 

FOKCEYTHE WlLLSON. 



APOOAL YPSE* 

Strmght to his heart the bullet crushed; 
Down from his breast the red blood gushed, 
And o'er his face a glory rushed. 

A sudden spasm shook his frame, 
And in his ears there went and came 
A sound as of devouring flame. 

Which in a moment ceased, and then 
The great light clasped his brows again, 
So that they shone like Stephen's when 

Saul stood apart a little space 

And shook with shuddering awe to trace 

God's splendors settling o'er his face. 

Thus, like a king, erect in pride, 
Raising clean hands toward heaven, he cried: 
" All hail the Stars and Stripes! " and died. 

Died grandly. But before he fell — 
(O blessedness ineffable!) 
Vision apocalyptical 

Was granted to him, and his eyes, 
All radiant with glad surprise, 
Looked forward through the Centuries, 

And saw the seeds which sages cast 
In the world's soil in cycles past, 
Spring up and blossom at the last; 

Saw how the souls of men had grown, 
And where the scythes of Truth had mown 
Clear space for Liberty's white throne; 

*Private Arthur LarM, Fixth Mass. Vols., killed in the attack of the Balti- 
more mob upon his regiment, April 19, 186 1, was the first life sacrificed to the 
war. 



LIBERTY AND PATRIOTISM. 209 

Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, 
The blackening stains had been removed 
Forever from the land he loved; 

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned, 
And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound, 
Gasping its life out on the ground. 

****** 

With far-off vision gazing clear 
Beyond this gloomy atmosphere 
Which shuts us in with doubt and fear, 

He — marking how her high increase 
Ran greatening in perpetual lease 
Through balmy years of odorous Peace — ■ 

Greeted in one transcendent cry 

Of intense, passionate ecstasy 

The sight which thrilled him utterly; 

Saluting with most proud disdain 
Of murder and of mortal pain, 
The vision which shall be again! 

So, lifted with prophetic pride, 

Raised conquering hands toward heaven and cried: 
" All hail the Stars and Stripes ! " and died. 

Richakd Realr. 



HO W SL EEP THE BRA YE. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrm gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there! 

William Collins. 
14 



PART VII. 



Battle <&ti)ot& 

(211) 



Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Sato ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants, and tyrants' slaves ? — The fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high:— from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Bed battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 



(212* 



BATTLE ECHOES. 



FLODDEN FIELD. 

"But see ! look up! — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill 
All downward to the banks of Till 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes, 
Until at weapon-point they close; 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth, 

And fiends in upper air ; 
O, life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 

Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 

(213) 



214 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 

Although against them come 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan, 

With Huntly, and with Home. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside, 
And with both hands the broadsword plied, 
'T was vain: — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky! 
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: 

Loud were the clanging blows; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, 

The pennon sunk and rose; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered mid the foes. 



By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots, around their king 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor van ward wing? 

Where Huntly, and where Home? — 
O for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

That to King Charles did come, 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 



BATTLE ECHOES. 215 

And every paladin and peer, 

On Koncesvalles died! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies 

Our Caledonian pride! 

Sir Walter Scott [Marmion) 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND, 

Ye mariners of England 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again. 

To match another foe! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the storm}?- winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



216 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

"When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



WATERLOO. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knoll! 

Did ye not hear it? No; 't was but the wind 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet; 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 



BATTLE ECHOES. 217 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, — " The foe ! They come ! 
they come ! " 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes; — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 

Lord Byron (Childe Harold). 



THE UNRE TURNING BRAVE. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass ; 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave; — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 



218 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, 
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard ! 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
"With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Came forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
- turned from all she brought, to those she could not bring. 

Lord Byron {Childe Harold). 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle- blade, 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



BATTLE ECHOES. 219 

' T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
"Who rush to glory or the grave! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE BATTLE OF IVBY. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! 

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance 

Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant 
land of France. 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 
waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh- 
ters. 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls 
annoy. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of 
war; 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre. 

O, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish 

spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land, 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 

hand; 
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 

flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; 



220 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, 
To fight for his own holy name and Henry of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, 
'And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant 

crest ; 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and 

high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to 

wing 
Down all our line in deafening shout, " God save our lord, 

the King ! " 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks 

of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul- 

verin ! 
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies! upon them with the lance! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
white crest; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guid- 
ing star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath 

turned his rein, 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish Count is slain; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags and 

c oven mail; 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to 

man. 
But out spake gentle Henry: " No Frenchman is my foe ; 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
O, was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, 
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? 



BATTLE ECHOES. 221 

Ho, maidens of Vienna ! — -ho, matrons of Luc3rne ! 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall 
return. 

Ho, Philip ! send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- 
men's souls. 

Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be 
bright ! 

Ho, burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to- 
night ! 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised 
the slave, 

And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the 
brave. 

Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories are ; 

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. 
Thomas Babingto^ Macaulay. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North 
Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown, 
And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 
By each gun the lighted brand, 
In a bold, determined hand, 
And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 
Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line: 
It was ten of April morn by the chime: 
As they drifted on their path, 
There was silence deep as death; 
And the boldest held his breath, 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 



222 GOLDEN POEMS. 

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 
And the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back; — 
Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 
As they strike the shattered sail; 
Or in conflagration pale 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 
As he hailed them o'er the wave: 
"Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
And we conquer but to save: — 
So peace instead of death let us bring; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
"With the crews, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 
To our king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
That he gave her wounds repose; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 
As death withdrew his shades from the day. 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woful sight, 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, Old England, raise, 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
Once so faithful and so true, 



BATTLE ECHOES. 223 

On the deck of fame that died 
With the gallant good Riou; 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
While the billow mournful rolls, 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



BORDER SONG. 

Maecit, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale! 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale! 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the queen and the old Scottish glory. 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing ; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crao; where the beacon is blazing 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding, 
War-steeds are bounding, 
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order ; 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

- Sir Walter Scott {The Monastery). 



THE "REVENGE? — A BALLAD OF THE 
FLEET. _ 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: 
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore God, I am no 
coward, 



224 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of ge^r, 
And the half my men are sick; I must fly, but follow qu.ck; 
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no 

coward; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again: 
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord 

Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 

Very carefully and slow, 

Men of Bideford in Devon, 

And we laid them on the ballast down below; 

For we brought them all aboard, 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to 

Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to 

% hfc >. 
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in 

sight, 

With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 

" Shall we fight or shall we fly? 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 

For to fight is but to die ! 

There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun be set." 

And Sir Richard said again: " We be all good Englishmen; 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 

Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, 

and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe; 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick 

below; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were 

seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane 

between. 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks 
and laugh'd; 



BATTLE ECHOES. 225 

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little 

craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip, that, of fifteen hundred 

tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of 

guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a 

cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 
Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and 

went, 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand 

to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musque- 

teers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakss 

his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over 
the summer sea, 

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the 
fifty-three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 
galleons came, 

Ship after ship, the whole nigh, long, with her battle thun- 
der and flame; 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her 
dead and her shame. 

For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could 
fight us no more — 

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world be- 
fore? 

For he said " Fight on! fight on! " 
Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 
15 



226 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night 

was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, 
And he said " Fight on! fight on! " 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over 

the summer sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all 

in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we 

still could sting, 
So they watched what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 

stark and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 

was all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
" We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again! 
We have won great glory, my men! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner! sink her! split her in 

twain! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain! " 

And the gunner said " Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: 

M We have children, we have wives, 

And the Lord hath spared our lives. 

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us 

g°; 

We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore hirn 

then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught 

at last, 



BATTLE ECHOES. 227 

And they praised him to his face with a courtly foreign 

grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and 

true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and 

true, 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, 
And away she sailed with her loss and longsd for her own; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from 

sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake 

grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts 

and their flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered 

navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island 

crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE DEFENSE OF L TJCKNO W. 

Banner of England! not for a season, O banner of Britain, 
hast thou 

Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! 

Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee 
on high 

Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Luck- 
now — 

Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee 
anew, 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



228 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held 

with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help them, our chil- 
dren and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at 

most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his 

post !" 
; Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence, the best 

of the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him, we laid him that 

night in his grave. 
" Every man die at his post!" and there hail'd on our houses 

and halls 
Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon- 
balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at oar slight 

barricade, 
Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we 

stoopt to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often 

there fell 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and 

their shell. 
Death — for their spies were among us, their marksmen 

were told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could 

think for the rest; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain 

at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us 

round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a 

street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and 

death in the ground ! 
Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine ! down, down ! and 

creep thro' the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear him — the mur- 
derous mole ! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be 

thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than 

before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no 

more; 



BATTLE ECHOES. 229 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 
blew ! 

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced 

on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd 

away, 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends 

in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket- shot, volley on volley, and yell upon 

yell- 
Fiercely on all the defenses our myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard 

the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm! 

and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown'd by the 

tide — 
So many thousands that if they be boUl enough who shall 

escape? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers 

and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their masses are gapp'd 

with our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging 

forward again. 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they could not 

subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 

blew. 

Handful of men as we were, we were ^English in heart and 

limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, 

to endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on 

him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points? We were every day 

fewer and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past : 
"Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold una- 
wares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive us at 

last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into 

theirs ! " 



230 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Roar upon roar, in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be 

as true ! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank 

fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which 

they had clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with 

hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 

blew. 

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out- 
tore 

Clean from our lines of defense ten or twelve good paces or 
more. 

Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of 
the sun — 

One has leapt upon the beach, crying out : "Follow me, 
follow me ! " — 

Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him, too, and down 
goes he. 

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the 
traitors had won? 

Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! make way 
for the gun ! 

Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and we 
fire, and they run. 

Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have 
his due ! 

Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faith- 
ful and few, 

Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and 
smote them, and slew, 

That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. 

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We 

can fight ! 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the 

night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lyingf alarms, 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and sound- 
ings to arms ; 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, 



BATTLE ECHOES. 231 

Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes 

round, 
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the 

ground ; 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, 
Thoughts of the breezes of Mav blowing over an English 

~ field, 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be 

heal'd, 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful- pitiless knife, — 
Torture and trouble in vain — for it never could save us a life; 
Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the dying and (load, 
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for 

grief, 
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for ail that we 

knew — 
Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the 

still shatter'd walls, 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 

blew. 

Hark! cannonade, fusilade! is it true what was told by the 

scout— - 
Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell 

mutineers ? 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears ! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering 

cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come 

out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good 

fusileers, 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with 

their tears ! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are saved ! — is it you ? 

is it you ? 
Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of 

Heaven ! 
" Hold it for fifteen days! " we have held it for eighty-seven ' 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

Alfred Texxysox. 



232 GOLDEN POEMS. 



SONG OF THE CAMP. 

" Give us a song! " the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said: 
" We storm the forts to-morrow; 
Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon: 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars. 

And Trish Norah's eyes are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 



BATTLE ECHOES. , 233 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing: 
The bravest are the tenderest — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 

In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
"When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot! 
"When the files 
Of the isles, 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the 
rampant 

Unicorn, 
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the 
drummer, 

Through the morn! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires; 
And the balls whistled deadly, 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires; 
As the roar 
On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres 

Of the plain; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, 
Cracking amain! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers; 
And the " villainous saltpetre " 
Rung a fierce, discordant metre 

Round their ears; 

As the swift 

Storm-drift, 



234 GOLDEN POEMS. 

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor 

On our flanks; 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire 

Through the ranks! 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder- cloud; 
And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was rinsing; 

Trumpet loud. 

Then the blue 

Bullets flew, 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden 

Rifle-breath; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, 



Hurling death! 



Guy Humphrey McMaster. 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 

are stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift 

sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 

camps; 
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and 

damps; 
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 

lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burni hed rows of steel: 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 

shall deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his 

heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 



BATTLE ECHOES. 235 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat; 
O, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. 
While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



MY MARYLAND. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That necked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of 3 ore, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland! 
For life or death, for woe or weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Come! 't is the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
Maryland, my Maryland! 



236 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" /Sic semper! " 't is the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland! 
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland! 
Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song. 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland! 
But lo! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 
The " Old Line's " bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; 
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum — 

?s ! She burns ! She '11 corn* 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James E. Randall. 



BATTLE ECHOES. 237 

STOXEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. 

Come, cheerily, men, pile on the rails, 

And stir the camp-fires bright ! 
No matter if the canteen fails, 

We'll have a roaring night ! 
Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
There burly Blue-Ridge echoes strong, 
To swell the brigade's rousing song 

Of Stonewall Jackson's way ! 

"We see him now — his old slouched hat 

Cocked o'er his eye askew, 
His smooth, dry smile, his speech so pat, 

So firm, so bold, so true ; 
The blue-light Elder knows 'em well, 
Says he, " That's Banks — he's fond of shell! 
Lord save his soul — we'll give him Hell ! " 

That's Stonewall Jackson's way! 

Silence ! Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Hats off! 

Old Stonewall 's going to pray ! 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! 

Attention! 'T is his way! 
Kneeling upon his native sod 
In forma pauperis to God — 
" Stretch forth thine arm ! Lay bare thy rod ! 

Amen ! " That's Stonewall's way! 

He 's in the saddle now — " Fall in ! 

Steady, the whole brigade ! 
Hill 's at the Ford, cut off ! We'll win 

His way out, ball or blade ! 
No matter if our shoes be worn, 
No. matter if our feet be torn, — 
Quick step ! We '11 with him before morn, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way ! " 

The rising sun breaks back the mists 
Of morning, and, by George ! — 
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists, 
Hemmed by an ugly gorge; 
" Pope and his Yankees, whipped before ! 

Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; 
" Charge, Ashby ! Pay off Stuart's score, 
In Stonewall Jackson's way ! " 

Ah, woman ! wait, and watch, and yearn 



238 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah, widow ! read with eyes that burn 

That ring upon thy hand ! 
Ah, maiden ! weep on, hope on, pray on ! 
Thy lot is not so all forlorn — 
The foe had better ne'er been born 

That gets in Stonewall's way ! 

J. W. Palmer. 



CIVIL WAR. 

" Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; 
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 

That shines on his breast like an amulet ! " 

"Ah, Captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead! 

There 's music around when my barrel 's in tune ! " 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 

And dead from his horse fell the rino-in^ dragoon. 

" Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood — 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." 

"O Captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette; 
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, 
That my heart rose upon- me, and masters me yet. 

"But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of gold; 
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

"Ha ! Rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis she, 

My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 
Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree: 
We must bury him here, by the light of the moon! 

" But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite; 
War is a virtue — weakness a sin; 
There 's lurking and loping around us to-night; 
Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in ! " 

Charles Dawson Shanly. 



BATTLE ECHOES. 239 

THE ARSENAL AT SPBIN~GFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's skin; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals or forts. 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Ciin ! 



240 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



PART VIII. 



pernor, 



16 (241) 



Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 
And merrily hent the stile-a: 

A merry heart goes all the day, 
Your sad heart tires in a mile-a. 



(242) 



HUMOR. 



LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS. 

1 lately lived in quiet ease, 

An' never wished to marry, 0! 
But when I saw my Peggy's face, 

I felt a sad quandary, O! 
Though wild as ony Athol deer, 

She has trepanned me fairly, O! 
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear 
Torment me late an' early, O! 
O, love, love, love! 

Love is like a dizziness; 
It winna let a poor body 
Gang about his biziness! 

To tell my feats this single week 

Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! 
I drave my cart out ower a dike, 

My horses in a miry, O! 
I wear my stockings white an' blue, 

My love 's sae fierce an' fiery O! 
I drill the land that I should plough, 

An' plough the drills entirely, O! 
O, love, love, love! etc. 

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, 

I rase to theek the stable, O ! 
I keust my coat, an' plied away 

As fast as I was able, O ! 
I wrought that morning out an' out, 

As I 'd been redding fire, O ! 
When I had done an' looked about, 

Gudefaith, it was the b}^re, O I 
O, love, love, love! etc. 

(243) 



244 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Her wily glance I '11 ne'er forget, 

The dear, the lovely blinkin o't 
Has pierced me through an' through the heart, 

An' plagues me wi' the prinkiing o't. 
I tried to sing, I tried to pray, 

I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, 
I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, 

But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. 
0, love, love, love! etc. 

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, 

Or how severe my pliskie, O ! 
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love 

Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O ! 
For love has raked me fore an' aft, 

I scarce can lift a leggie, O ! 
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, 
An' soon I '11 dee for Peggy, O ! 
O, love, love, love! 

Love is like a dizziness; 
It winna let a poor body 
Gang about his biziness! 



James Hogg. 



GLUGGITY GLUG. 

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, 

And he had drunk stoutly at supper; 
He mounted his horse in the night at the door, 

And sat with his face to the crupper. 
" Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, 

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, 
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, 

While I was engaged at the bottle, 
Which went gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug." 

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 

'T was the friar's road home, straight and level; 
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, 
So he scampered due north like a devil. 
" This new mode of docking," the friar then said, 
""I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill; 
And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off his head, 

While I am engaged at the bottle, 
Which goes gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug." 



HUMOR. 245 

The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got, 

He was rather for drinking than grazing; 
Quoth the friar, " 'T is strange headless horses should trot, 

But to drink with their tails is amazing!" 
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, 

In the pond fell this son of a pottle; 
Quoth he, " The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose — 

I wish I were over a bottle, 
"Which goes gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug." 

Anonymous. 



JROET 0" MORE. 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, — 

He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; 

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
" Now Rory, be aisy ! " sweet Kathleen would cry, 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye, — 
"With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm about; 

Faith ! you've tazedtill I've put on my cloak inside out." 
" Och ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 

Ye've thrated my heart for this many a day; 

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 

For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike: 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound — " 

" Faith!" says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the ground." 

" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 
Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so !" 

" Och!" says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to hear, 
For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear, 
So, jewel, kape dhraming that same till ye die, 
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie ! 
And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you 've tazed me enough ; 
Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and 

Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." 



246 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, 
And he kissed her sweet lips, — don't you think he was right? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — you '11 hug me no more, — 
That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." 
" Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure ! 
For there 's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 

Samuel Lover. 



JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD. 

I cannot eat but little meat, 

My stomach is not good; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothing a-cold; 
I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 

Back and side go bare, go bare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But belly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it be new or old. 

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 

And a crab laid in the fire; 
A little bread shall do me stead, 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if I wold, 
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt, 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek; 
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 

The tears run down her cheek. 
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 

Even as a malt-worm shold; 
And saith, Sweetheart, I take my part 

Of this jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side go bare, etc. 



HUMOR. 247 

Now let them drink till they nod and wink, 

Even as good fellows should do; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to: 
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 

Whether they be young or old. 

Back and side go bare, go bare ; 

Both foot and hand go cold ; 
But belly, God send thee good ale enough, 

Whether it be new or old. 

John Still. 



ZITTLJE BILLEE. 

There were three sailors of Bristol City 
Who took a boat and went to sea; 

But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest he was little Billee; 

Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

" I am extremely hungaree. " 
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

" We' ve nothing lett, us must eat we. " 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"With one another we should 'nt agree! 

There 's little Bill, he 's young and tender, 
We' re old and tough, so let 's eat he. " 

" O Billy ! we 're going to kill and eat you, 
So undo the button of your chemie. " 
When Bill received this information, 
He used his pocket-handkerchie. 

" First let me say my catechism 

Which my poor mammy taught to me. " 

"Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 



248 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Billy went up to the main- top-gallant mast, 
And down he fell on his bended knee; 

He scarce had come to the Twel*fth Commandment, 
When up he jumps — " There's land I see! 

" Jerusalem and Madagascar 

And North and South Amerikee; 
There 's the British flag a riding at anchor, 
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B. " 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
He handed fat Jack and flooded Jimmee; 

But as for little Bill he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy- three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION' TO SPRING. 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays 

Now divers birds are heard to sing, 
And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 

Hail to the coming on of Spring! 

The songs of those said birds arouse 

The memory of our youthful hours, 
As green as those said sprays and boughs, 

As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. 

The birds aforesaid — happy pairs — 

Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, in shrines 

In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs, 
Administrators, and assigns. 

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, 

Where tender plaintiffs actions bring, — 

Season of frolic and of sport, 

Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring! 

Henry Howard Brownell. 



THE DOCTOR IN LOVE. 

Bewitching, beauteous, cruel Jane McSparrow! 

My bosom's lord no longer its own lord is; 
Inspired by thee, Dan Cupid's fatal arrow 
Has pierced my apex cordis. 



HUMOR. 249 

No knock I heed, nor answer any call; 

No action have in ilium or duodenum; 
Spleen, pancreas, colon, stomach, liver, all 
Have something very odd in 'em. 

My outward size is fitted to deceive; 

By stays and padding I'm a hollow sham; 
My inward sighs with painful labor heave 
My wasted diaphragm. 

My brachials are gone, my deltoid dwindles; 

This pectoralis major 's all unreal; 
These shanks, so shapely once, are now but spindles, 
From lack of popliteal. 

Masseters and molars have no further use; 

For weeks a score I've fed on thinnest gruel; 
Gone are the functions of the gastric juice, 
For want of gastric fuel. 

Of best prescriptions I have taken twenty; 

Spts. vin. gal. — (I hardly dare exhibit 'em); 
Decoct. Hord. Oct. 1, ter in die; Spiritus frumentie, 
Cape ab libitum. 

But all in vain : a subject, a cadaver, 

I hasten toward that tenement so narrow; 
Foredoomed I am, since fated not to have her — 
Sweet, cruel Jane McSparrow. 

A. McFakland. 



A CABMAN'S ACCOUNT OF A LAWSUIT. 

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals, 

And he her drounit into the quarry holes; 

And I ran to the consistory, for to pleinyie, 

And there I happenit amang ane greedie meinyie. 

They gave me first ane thing they call citanduni, 

Within aucht days I gat but libellandum; 

Within ane month I gat ad oppone?idum; 

In half ane year I gat inter-loquenditm; 

And syne I gat — how call ye it ? — ad replicandum; 

Bot I could never ane word yet understand him ; 

And then they gart me cast out mony placks, 

And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts. 

Bot or they came half gate to concludendum^ 



250 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him. 
Thus they postponed me twa year with their train, 
Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again ; 
And then thir rooks they rowpit wonder fast 
For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last. 
Of pronunciandum they made me wonder fain, 
Bot I gat never my gude grey mare again. 

Sir David Lyndsay. 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 

They'vc got a bran new organ, Sue, 

For all their fuss and search; 
They've done just as they said they 'd do, 

And fetched it into church. 
They 're bound the critter shall be seen, 

And on the preacher's right 
They've hoisted up their new machine 

In everybody's sight. 
They've got a chorister and choir, 

Ag'in my voice and vote; 
For it was never my desire 

To praise the Lord by note ! 

I've been a sister good an' true, 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, 

Just as the preacher read ; 
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 

I took the fork an' led ! 
An' now, their bold, new-fangled ways 

Is comin' all about; 
And I, right in my latter days, 

Am fairly crowded out! 

To-day, the preacher, good old dear, 

With tears all in his eyes, 
Read — " I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies." 
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn— 

I s'pose I al'ays will; 
It somehow gratifies my whim, 

In good old Ortonville; 



HUMOK. 251 



But when that choir got up to sing, 

I could n't catch a word; 
They sung the most dog-gonedest thing 

A body ever heard! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near, 

An' when I see them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear, 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I'd chase the tune along, 

An' tried with all my might; 
But though my voice is good an' strong, 

I could n't steer it right. 
When they was high, then I was low, 

An' also contra'wise; 
And I too fast, or they too slow, 

To " mansions in the skies." 

An' after every verse, you know, 

They played a little tune; 
I did 't understand, and so 

I started in too soon. 
I pitched it purty middlin' high, 

And fetched a lusty tone, 
But O, alas ! I found that I 

Was singin' there alone ! 
They laughed a little, I am told; 

But I had done my best; 
And not a wave of trouble rolled 

Across my peaceful breast. 

And Sister Brown — I could but look, 

She sits right front of me — 
She never was no singin' book, 

An' never went to be ; 
But then she al'ays tried to do 

The best she could, she said ; 
She understood the time, right through, 

An' kep' it with her head ; 
But when she tried this mornin', O, 

I had to laugh, or cough ! 
It kep' her head a bobbin so, 

It e'en a'most come off ! 

An' Deacon Tubbs, he all broke down, 

As one might well suppose ; 
He took one look at Sister Brown, 

And meeklv scratched his nose. 



252 GOLDEN POEMS. 

He looked his hymn-book through and through, 

And laid it on the seat, 
And then a pensive sigh he drew, 

And looked completely beat. 
An' when they took another bout, 

He didn't even rise ; 
But drawed his red bandanner out, 

An' wiped his weeping eyes. 

I've been a sister, good an' true, 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
But death will stop my voice, I know, 

For he is on my track ; 
And some day, I'll to meetin' go, 

And nevermore come back.- 
And when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be — 
I do not want wo patent thing 

A squealin' over me ! 

Will M. Carletok. 



HANS BREITMANN S PARTY. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

Dey had biano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, 

Her name was Madilda Yane. 
She had haar as prown ash a pretzel, 

Her eyes vas himmel-plue, 
Und ven dey looket indo mine 

Dey shplit mine heart in two. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere you'll pe pound; 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yane 

Und vent shpinnen round und round. 
De pootiest Fraulein in de House, 

She vayed dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 
I dells you it cost him dear; 



HUMOR. 253 

Dey rolled in more as sefen kecks 

Of foost-rate Lager Beer. 
Und veneier dey knocks de shpicket in 

De Deutschers gifes a cheer; 
I dinks dat so vine a barty 

Nefer coom to a het dis year. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty ; 

Dere all vas Souse und Brouse. 
Ven de sooper corned in, de gompany 

Did make demselfs to house ; 
Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst und Braten fine, 
Und vash der Abendessen down 

Mit four parrels of Neckarwein. 

Hans Breitmann give a barty ; 

We all cot troonk ash bigs. 
I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, 

Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. 
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane 

Und she shlog me on de kop, 
Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks 

Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — - 

Where ish dat barty now ? 
Where ish de lofely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern — 

De shtar of de shpirit's light ? 
All goned afay mit de Lager Beer — > 

Afay in de Ewigkeit ! 

Chakles G. Leland. 



THE PLAIDIE. 

Upon ane stormy Sunday, 
Coming adoon the lane, 

Were a score of bonnie lassies— 
And the sweetest, I maintain, 
Was Caddie, 

That I took unneath my plaidie, 
To shield her from the rain. 



She said the daisies blushed 
For the kiss that I had ta'en; 



25 i GOLDEN POEMS. 



I wadna hae thought the lassie J 

Wad sae of a kiss complain; 

" Now, laddie ! 

I winna stay under your plaidie, 

If I gang hame in the rain ! " 

But, on an after Sunday, 

When cloud there was not ane, 

This self-same winsome lassie 

(We chanced to meet in the lane) 

Said, " Laddie, 

Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? 

Wha kens but it may rain?" 

Charles Sibley. 



BITE BIGGER. 

[Yorkshire Ballad.] 

As aw hurried throo th' toan to mi wark, 

(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had goan), 
Aw happened to hear a remark 

At ud fotch tears throo th' heart of a stoan ; 
It wur raanin, an' snowin, an' cowd, 

An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck, 
An' th' east wind boath whistled and howl'd, 

It soanded like nowt but ill-luck ; 
When two little lads, doun'd i' rags, 

Baght stockings or shoes o' ther feet, 
Coom trapesin away o'er th' flags, 

Booath on em soddened wi' th' weet. 
Th' owdest wud happen be ten, 

Th' yungen be hauf on't — noa mooar ; 
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to mysen, 

God help fowk this weather 'at 's poor ! 
Th' big en saw'd summut off the graand, 

An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be ; 
} T wur a few wizen'd flaars he'd faand, 

An' they seemed to ha' filled him wi' glee, 
An' he said, " Come on, Billy, may be 

We shall find summut else by an' by, 
An' if net, tha mun share these w' me 

When we get to some spot where its dry." 
Leet- hearted they trotted away, 

An' aw followed, coss twur in mi roaad, 
But aw thowt aw'd neer seen such a day — 

It wurn't fit to be ao-ht for a tooad. 



HUMOK. 255 

Sooin th' big en agean slipt away, 

An' saw'd summut else aght o' th' muck, 
An' he cried aght, " Luk here, Bill ! to-day 

Aren't we blessed wi a seet o' goord luck ? 
Here 's a apple, an' th' mooast on it 's saand ; 

What 's rotten aw '11 throw in th' street — 
Worn 't it gooid to lig thear to be faand ? 

Nah booath on us con hav a treat." 
Soa he wiped it, an' rubbed it, an' then 

Sed, " Billy, thee bite off a bit ; 
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen 

Tha shall share wi me sich as aw get." 
Soa th' little en bate off a touch ; 

T' other's face beam'd wi' pleasure awl throo, 
An' he sed, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much, 

Bite agean, art bite bigger / nah, do ! " 
Aw waited to hear nowt no mooar, — 

Thinks aw, thear 's a lesson for me ! 
Tha 's a heart i' thy breast, if tha 'rt poor ; 

Th' world wur richer wi mooar sich as thee ! 
Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, 

An' awd ment it fur aale when coom nooin, 
But aw thowt aw '11 goa gie it yond lad, 

He desarves it fur what he's been dooin ; 
Soa aw sed, " Lad, here 's tuppince fur thee, 

For thysen ; " an' they stared like two geese, 
But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, 
" Nah, it '11 just be a penny apiece." 
" God bless thee ! do just as tha will, 

An' may better days speedily come ; 
Tho' clam'd an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still 

Tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some ! " 

Anonymous. 



POPPING CORK. 

And there they sat, a-popping corn, 
John Styles and Susan Cutter — 

John Styles as fat as any ox, 
And Susan fat as butter. 

And there they sat and shelled the corn, 
And raked and stirred the fire, 

And talked of different kinds of corn, 
And hitched their chairs up nigher. 



256 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Then Susan she the popper shook, 
Then John he shook the popper, 

Till both their faces grew as red 
As saucepans made of copper. 

And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, 

All kinds of fun a-poking, 
Wnile he haw-hawed at her remarks, 

And she laughed at his joking. 

And still they popped, and still they ate — 
John's mouth was like a hopper— 

And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt, 
And shook and shook the popper. 

The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, 
And still the corn kept popping ; 

It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, 
And still no signs of stopping. 

And John he ate, and Sue she thought— 

The corn did pop and patter — 
Till John cried out, " The corn's a-fire ! 

Why, Susan, what 's the matter ? " 

Said she, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock ; 

You'll die of indigestion ; 
I 'm sick of all this popping corn — 

Why don 't you pop the question ?" 

ANONYMOUS. 



A HOUSEKEEPER'S TRAGEDY. 

One day as I wandered, I heard a complaining, 
And saw a poor woman, the picture of gloom; 

She glared at the mud on her doorsteps ('t was raining), 
And this was her wail as she wielded the broom : 

" O, life is a toil, and love is a trouble, 

And beauty will fade, and riches will flee; 
And pleasures they dwindle, and prices they double, 
And nothing is what I could wish it to be. 

" There 's too much of worriment goes to a bonnet ; 
There's too much of ironing goes to a shirt; 
There 's nothing that pays for the time you waste on it ; 
There's nothing: that lasts but trouble and dirt. 



HUMOK. 257 

"In March it is mud ; it's slush in December ; 
The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust ; 
In fall, the leaves litter ; in muggy September 
The wall-paper rots, and the candlesticks rust. 

" There are worms in the cherries, and slugs in the roses, 
And ants in the sugar, and mice in the pies ; 
The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes, 
And ravaging roaches and damaging flies. 

"It's sweeping at six, and dusting at seven ; 
It 's victuals at eight, and dishes at nine ; 
It 's potting and panning from ten to eleven ; 

We scarce break our fast ere we plan how to dine. 

" With grease and with grime, from corner to center, 
Forever at war, and forever alert, 
No rest for a day, lest the enemy enter — 

I spend my whole life in a struggle with dirt. 

" Last night, in my dreams, I was stationed forever 
On a bare little isle in the midst of the sea ; 
My one chance of life was a ceaseless endeavor 
To sweep off the waves ere they swept over me. 

" Alas, 'twas no dream ! Again I behold it ! 
I yield ; I am helpless my fate to avert ! " 
She rolled down her sleeves, her apron she folded, 
Then laid down and died, and was buried in dirt. 

Anonymous. 



THE SAILORS CONSOLATION 

One night came on a hurricane, 

The sea was mountains rolling, 
When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 

And said to Billy Bowling: 
"A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill ; 

Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
Lor 1 help 'em, how I pities all 

Unhappy folks on shore now ! 

" Foolhardy chaps who live in town, 
What danger they are all in, 
And now are quaking in their beds 
For fear the roof should fall in : 

17 



258 GOLDEN" POEMS. 

Poor creatures, how thev envies us 



And wishes, I've a notion, 
For our good luck, in such a storm, 
To be upon the ocean. 

"But as for them who 're out all day, 

On business Irom their houses, 
And late at night are com'ng home, 

To cheer the babes and spouses ; 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck, 

Are comfortably lying, 
My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying ! 

"And very often have we heard 

How men are killed and undone, 
By overturns of carriages, 

By thieves and fires in London. 
We know what risks all landsmen run, 

From noblemen to tailors ; 
Then Bill, let us thank Providence 
That you and I are sailors ! " 

Charles Dibdin. 



THE LOVERS. 

Sally Salter, she was a young teacher who taught, 

And her friend, Charley Church, was a preacher who 

praught, 
Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught. 

His heart, when he saw her, kept sinking and sunk, 
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk ; 
While she, in her turn, kept thinking and thunk. 

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, 
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, 
And what he was longing to do then he doed. 

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, 

To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke ; 

So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke. 

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode ; 

Tney so sweetly did glide that they both thought they 

glode, 
And they came to the place to be tied, and were toed. 



HUMOE. 259 

Then homeward, he said, let us drive, and they drove, 
And as soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove, 
For whatever he could n't contrive, she controve. 

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole ; 

At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole ; 

And he said, " I feel better than ever I fole." 

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung, 
While Time his swift circuit was wing^ina; and wung* ; 

no o * 

And this was the thing he was bringing and brung : 

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught ; 

That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught ; 

Was the one she now liked to scratch, and she scraught. 

And Charley's warm love began freezing, and froze, 

While he took to teazing, and cruelly tozQ 

The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze. 

" Wretch ! " he cried, when she threatened to leave him, 

and left, 
" How could you deceive me, as you have deceft ?" 
And she answered, " I promised to cleave, and I've cleft." 

Phcebe Cary. 



THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER, 

Many a long, long year ago, 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though " lying low," 

How near New York their schooners ran. 

They greased the lead before it fell, 

And then by sounding, through the night, 

Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 

They always guessed their reckoning right. 

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, 
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot; 

And so below he'd "douse the glim," — 
After, of course, his "something hot." 

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, 
This ancient skipper might be found ; 

No matter how his craft would rock, 
He slept, — for skippers' naps are sound. 



260 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The watch on deck would now and then 
Run down and wake him, with the lead ; 

He 'd up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

One night ' twas Jothara Marden's watch, 

A curious wag — the pedler's son ; 
And so he mused (the wanton wretch !) 
" To-night I'll have a grain of fun. 

" We 're all a set of stupid fools, 

To think the skipper knows, by tasting, 
What ground he's on ; Nantucket schools 

Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting !" 

And so he took the well-greased lead, 

And rubbed it o'er a box of earth 
That stood on deck — a parsnip-bed, — 

And then he sought the skipper's berth. 

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." 
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 
Opened his eyes in wondrous haste, 
And then upon the floor he sprung ! 

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, 

Hauled on his boots, and roared to Mar den — 
"Nantucket's sunk, and here we are 

Right over old Marm Hackett's garden ! " 

James Thomas Fields. 



JOHN DAVIDS ON. 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 

Sat toastin' their taes ae night, 
When somethin' started on the nuir 

An' blinked by their sight. 

"Guidwife ! " quo' John, " did ye see that mouse? 

Whar sorra was the cat?" 
"A mouse?" " Ay, a mouse." — " Na, na, Guidman, 

It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat." 

" Oh, oh ! Guidwife, to think ye 've been 
Sae lang about the house 
An' na to ken a mouse frae a rat ! 
Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse ! " 



HUMOK. 261 

"I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman, 
An' what think ye o' that? 
Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair— 
I tell ye 't was a rat." 

"3fe haud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! 
I '11 be maister o' the house — 
I saw it as plain as een could see, 
An' I tell ye 't was a mouse ! " 

" If you 're the maister o' the house, 
It's I 'm the mistress o' 't ; 
An' I ken best what 's i' the house — 
Sae I tell ye 't was a rat." 

" Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, 
An' ca' it what ye please." 
Sae up she gat an' made the brose, 
While John sat toastin' his taes. 

They suppit, an' suppit, an' suppit the brose, 

An' aye their lips played smack; 
They suppit, an' suppit, an' suppit the brose 

Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa' out, Guidwife, 
About a mouse." — " A what ! 
It 's a lee you tell, an' I say again 
It was na a mouse, ' twas a rat." 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? 
My faith, but ye craw croose ! — 
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't, — 

'Twas a mouse." — "'T was a rat." — «' Twas a 
mouse." 

Wi' that she struck him o'er the pow: 

" Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ! 
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph ! 

T was a rat." " T was a mouse f" " 'T was a rat ! " 

She sent the brose-cup at his heels 

As he hirpled ben th3 house ; 
But he shoved out his head as he steekit the door, 

An' cried, " 'T was a mouse, 't was a mouse ! " 

Yet when the auld carle fell asleep, 

She paid him back for that, 
An' roared into his sleepin' lug, 

" 'T was a rat, 't was a rat, 't was a rat ! " 



262 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The deil be wi' me, if I think 

It was a beast at all; 
Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, 

She found wee Johnnie's ball. 

Anonymous. 



AN ELEG T OJST THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song; 
And if you find it wondrous short, t 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 

Of whom the world might say, 
That still a godly race he ran, 

Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes: 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wondering neighbors ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied: 
The man recovered of the bite; 

The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



HUMOR. 263 

THE POWER OF PRAYER. 

(The first Steamboat up the Alabama.) 

You, Dinah ! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does 

meet. 
De Lord, He made dese black-jack roots to twis' into a 

seat. 
Umph, dar ! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' ole nigger's 

feet. 

It pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June, 
I 'clar, I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle soon ! 
Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin' in de 
moon. 

Well, ef dis nigger is been blin' for fo'ty year or mo', 
Dese ears dey sees de world, like th'u' de cracks dat's in de 

do'; 
For de Lord has built dis cabin wid de winders hind and 

'fo\ 

I know my front ones is stopped up, and things is sort o' 

dim; 
But den, th'u' dern temptations vain won't leak in on ole 

Jim'! 
De back ones shows me earth enough, aldo' dey 's mons 1 ous 

slim. 

And as for Hebben — bless de Lord, and praise His holy 

name ! 
Pat shines in all de co'ners o' dis cabin jes' de same 
As ef dat cabin had n't nar a plank upon de frame ! 

Who call me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah ! Don't you 

hyar 
Som'body holl'in' " Hoo, Jim, hoo ?" My Sarah died las' 

y'ar; 
Is dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim from 

hyar? 

My stars ! dat can 't be Sarah — shuh, jes' listen, Dinah, 71010 ! 
What kin be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row ? 
Fus' bellerin', like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a sow ! 

De Lord V massy sakes alive ! jes' hear — Ker-woof I Ker- 

woof! 
De Debbie's comin' round dat bend — he 's comin', shuh 

enufF, 
A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof ! 



264 ' GOLDEN POEMS. 

I 'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run 

away; 
I 'm gwine to stan' stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed day; 
You screech, and howl, and swish de water, Satan ! Let 

us pray : 

hebbenly Mahs'r, what Thou wiliest dat mus' be jes' so, 
And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some niggers boun' to 

go. 
Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar 
below ! 

Sense Dinah, sense her, Mahs'r; for she's sich a little child, 
S/ie hardly jes' begin to scramble up de home-yard stile; 
But dis ole traveler's feet been tired dis many a many mile. 

I'se wufless as de rotten pole o' las' year's fodder-stack; 
De rheumatiz done bit my bones: you hyar 'em crack and 
crack f 

1 can't sit down 'd out gruntin' like 'twas breakin' o' my back. 

What use de wheel when hub and spokes is warped and 

split and rotten f 
What use dis dried up cotton-stalk when Life done picked 

my cotton ? 
L 'se like a word, dat somebody done said, and den forgotten. 

But Dinah ! Shuh ! dat gal jes' like dis little hick' ry -tree, 
De sap's jis risin' in her; she do grow owdaciouslee — 
Lord, ef you 's clarin' de underbrush, don't cut her down — 
cut me I 

L would not proud presume — but yet I'll boldly make 

reques', 
Sence Jacob had dat wastlin' match, I, too, gwine do my 

bes'; 
When Jacob got all underholt, de Lord He answered, Yes! 

And what for waste de wittles now, and th'ow away de 

bread f 
Jes' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald 

head f 
Tink of de 'conomy, Mahs'r, ef dis ole Jim was dead ! 

Stop ; ef I do 'nt believe de Debbie 's gone on up de stream ! 
Jes' now he squealed down dar : — hush; dat's a mighty 

weakly scream ! 
Yes, sir, he 's gone, he 's gone ; — he snort fi way off, like in a 

dream ! 



HUMOR. 265 

glory, hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high ! 

De Debbie 's fa'rly skeered to def ; he done gone flyin' by ; 

1 know'd he could 'n' stan' dat pra'r, I felt my Mahs'r nigh ! 

You, Dinah, ain 't you 'shamed now dat you did n't trust to 

grace ? 
I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face! 
You fool, you t'ink de Debbie could n't beat you in a race ? 

1 tell you, Dinah, jes' as sure as you is standin' dar, 
When folks start prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' 

de a'r ; 
Yea, Dinah, whar 'ould you be now, exceptin' fur dat pra'r? 

Sidney and Clifford Lanier. 



TO A FISH. 

Why fly est thou away with fear? 

Trust me, there 's naught of danger near; 

I have no wicked hooke, 
All covered with a snaring bait, 
Alas! to tempt thee to thy fate, 

And dragge thee from the brooke. 

harmless tenant of the flood ! 

1 do not wish to spill thy blood, 

For Nature unto thee 
Perchance has given a tender wife, 
And children dear, to charm thy life, 

As she hath done for me. 

Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish ; 
And when an angler for his dish, 

Through gluttony's vile sin, 
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
God give thee strength, O gentle trout, 

To pull the rascal in ! 

John Wolcot. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 

[ reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James: 
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 
And I'll tell in simple languags what I know about the row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 



266 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man ; 
And if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, 
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him. 

Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see, 
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society ; 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, 
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the 

rules, 
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his 

lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at 

fault; 
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
To say another is an ass — at least, to all intent; 
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen; 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the 

floor, 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 

For in less time than I write it, every member did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a 
sin, 

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thomp- 
son in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 

For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful 

James, 
And I've told in simple language what I know about the 

row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

Bket Harte. 



HUMOE. 2G7 

THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights 1 to 

tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa 'arty an' well. 
'* Cast awaay on a disolut land wi' a vartical soon !" 2 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what saailors a' seean an' a' 

doon ; 
" Summat to drink — sa' 'ot?" I'a nowt but Adam's wine : 
What's the eat o' this little 'ill-side to the 'eat o' the line? 

" What's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer ? " I'll tell tha. Gin . 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa fur it down to 

the inn. 
Naay — fur 1 be maain -glad, but thaw tha was iver sa dry, 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, an' I'll tell tha why. 

Meii an' thy sister was married, when wur it? back-end o' 

June, 
Ten year sin' and wa 'greed as well as a fiddle i' tune; 
I could fettie and clump owd booots and shoes wi' the best 

on 'em all, 
As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to Harmsby and Hutterbv 

Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' as 'appy as 'art could 

think, 
An' then the babby wur burn, and then I taiikes to the 

drink. 

An' I weant gaansaay it, my lad, thaw I be hafe shaiimed 

on it now, 
We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could sing a 

good song at the Plow; 
Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd an' hurted my buck' 3 
An' I coom'd neck-an-crop sometimes slaiipe down i' the 

squad an' the muck : 
An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not hafe ov a man, my 

lad- 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace like a cat, an' it 

maade 'er sa mad 
That Sally she turn'd a tongue-banger,* an' raiited ma, 

4 Sotlhi' thy braains 

i The vowels aX, pronounced separately, though in the closest conjunction, 
best render the sound of tiie long i and y "in this dialejt. Bit ueh words as 
craiiri, dadri, whau, a'i, (I) &c„ look awkward except in a pagj of express pho- 
netics. I hav thought it better t leave the simple i and y, and to trust that my 
readers will give them the br tader pronunciation.— [Tue Authok.J 

2 The oo short, as in " wood." 

a Hip. 4 S^old. 



268 GOLDEN POEMS. 

G-uzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' hawmin' 1 about i' the 

laanes 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy 'at to the 

Squire;' 
An' I looked cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 'im a-gittin' 

o' fire; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hallus as droonk as a king^ 
Foaks' coostom flitted a waay like a kite wi' abrokken string. 

An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' clo^ths to keep the wolf fro 

the door, 
Eh but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink the 

moor, 
Fur I fun, when 'er back wur turned, wheer Sally's owd 

stockin' wur 'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, and I wear'd it o' 

liquor, I did. 

An' one night I cooms 'oam like a bull gotten loose at a 

faair, 
An' she wur a-wa^itin' fo'mma, an' cryin' an' teSrin' 'er aair, 
An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' swear'd as I'd break 

ivry stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied our Sally a kick, 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, an' she an' the babby 

beal'd, 2 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor a mortal beast o' the 

feald. 

An' when I walked i' the murnin' I seead that our Sally 

went laamed 
Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur dreadful ashaSmed; 
An' Sally were sloomy 3 an' draggle-taailed in an owd turn 

gown, 
An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd an' the 'ole 'ouse hup- 

side down. 

An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty an' neat an' sweeiit, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower fro' 'ead to feeat: 
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thursby 

thurn; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a Sunday at murn, 
Could n't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a-mountin' oop 'igher an' 

'igher, 
An' then 'e turned to the sun, an' 'e shined like a sparkle o' 

fire. 

i Lounging. 2 Bellowed, cried out. J_ 8 Sluggish, out of spirits. 



HUMOK. 209 

' Doesn't tha see 'im,' she axes, ' fur I can see 'im ? ' an' T 
Seea'd nobbut the smile o' the sun as danced in 'or pratty 

blue eye ; 
An' I says 4 1 mun g-ie tha a kiss,' an' Sally says c Noa, thou 

moant,? 
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally says 

' doant ! ' 

An' when we coom'd into Meeatin', at fust she wur all in a 

tew, 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togither like birds on a beugh; 
An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' Hell-fire an' the loov o' God fur 

men, 
An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 

Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw theer's naw drinkin' 

i' Hell; 
Mea* fur to kick our Sally as kep' the wolf fro' the door, 
All along o' the drink, fur I looved 'er as well as afoor. 

Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blubber'd awaay o'the bed — 
4 Weant ni ver do it naw moor;' an' Sally loobkt up an' she said, 
' I'll upowd it 2 tha weant; thou Yt laike the rest o' the men, 
Thou '11 goa sniffin' about the tap till tha does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I knaws, as knaws tha sa 

well, 
That if tha seeas ' im an' smells ' im tha '11 foller ' im slick 

into Hell.' 

' Naay, ' says I, c fur I weant goa sniffin ' about the tap.' 

' Weant tha?' she says, an' mysen I throwt i' mysen 'may- 
hap.' 

' Noa : ' an' I started awaay like a shot, an' down to the 
hinn, 

An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' theer, yon big black 
bottle o' gin. 

' That caps owt, ' 2 says Sally, an' saw she begins to cry, 
But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says to 'er, ' Sally,' says I, 
' Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord an' the power ov 

'is Graace, 
Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my hennemy strait i' the 

fa ace, 
San' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let ma loook at 'im then, 
'E seeams naw moor nor vvatter, an' 'e's the Divil's oan sen.' 

i I'll uphold it. » That's beyond everything. 



270 GOLDEN POEMS. 

An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do naw work an' all, 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an poonch'd my 'and wi' the 

hawl, 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' sattled 'ersen o' my 

knee, 
An' coaxed an' coodled me oop till agean I feel'd mysen 

free. 

An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foalk stood a-gawmin ' * in, 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd istead of a quart o'gin; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — an' I wur chousin' the 

wife, 
Fur I could n't 'owd ' ands off gin, wur it nobbut to saave 

my life; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 'is airm, an' 'e 

shaws it to me, 
'Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw this upo' watter!' saj^s 

he. 
An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just as candles was lit, 
'Thou moant do it,' he says, 'tha man break 'im off bit by 

bit.' 
4 Thou'rt but a Methody-man,' says Parson, and laavs down 

'is 'at, 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, 'but I respecks tha fur 

that;' 
An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks down fro' the 'All to 

see, 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, ' fur I respecks tha,' says 'e; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a wind fro' far an' wide, 
An' browt me the boo5ts to be cobbled fro' hafe the coon- 

tryside. 

An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall stan to my dying daay ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother kind of a waay, 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 'im, an' puts 'im back i' 
the light. 

Would n't a pint a' sarved as well as a quart ? Naw doubt : 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' fowt it out. 
Fine an' meller 'e muri be by this, if I cared to taaste, 
But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur I'd feal mysen clean 
disgraced. 

An' once I said to the Missis, ' My lass, when I cooms to die, 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the divil's in 'im,' said I. 

1 Staring vacantly. 



HUMOR. 271 

But arter, I changed my mind, an' if Sally be left aloan, 
I'll hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an taake 'im ai'oor the Throan. 

Coom thou 'eer — yon laSdy a-steppin' along the streeat, 
Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' feai, an' neat, an' 

sweeat ? 
Look at the cloiiths on 'er back, thebbe ammost spick-span 

new, 
An' Tommy's faSce is as fresh as a codlin 'at's wesh'd 'i the 

dew. 

'Ere's our Sally an' Tommy, an' we be a-goin' to dine, 
Baiicon an taates, an' a beslings-puddin' an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goa fur it down to the 

hinn, 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, noa, not fur Sally's 

oan kin. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE SOBBOWS OF WEBTHEB. 

Weether had a love for Charlotte, 

Such as words could never utter ; 
Would you know how first he met her ? 

She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady, 

And a moral man was Werther ; 
And for all the wealth of Indies 

Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed, and pined, and ogled, 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 

Borne before her on a shutter, 
Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



PART IX. 



iPatfjos anii g>orroto. 

18 (273) 



There are gains for all our losses. 
There are halms for all our pain, 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger and are better 

Under manhood's sterner reign; 
Still, we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain; 
We behold it everyivhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 
But it never comes again. 

(274) 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings bur friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson {The Princess). 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Bsginning to die, too, in the glass. 

(275) 



276 GOLD EX POEMS. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut, — no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, — 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir, — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What I your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what is meant, I shall say, 
In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 

That body and soul are so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me, 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 277 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep; 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

Robert Browning. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

"When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame, 
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fall in showers frae my ee, 
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, 
But saving a crown he had naithing else beside : 
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the crown and the pound they were baith for me. 

He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day, 

When my faither brak his arm, and the cow was stown 

away ; 
My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea, 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me. 

My faither could na wark, my mither could na spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I could na win ; 
Auld Rob maintain 'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee, 
Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye nae marry me?" 

My heart it said nay, and I look'd for Jamie back, 
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack — 
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee ? 
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me ! 

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break : 
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea, 
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me ! 

I had na been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournfull as I sat on the stane at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he, 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry thee." 



278 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Siir, sair did we greet, and niickle did we say, — 
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away: 
I wish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee, 
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, but I care na much to spin ; 
I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
So I will do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



THE BUBIAL OF SIB JOHN MOOBE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried : 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The scds with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay iike a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his heal, 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he '11 reck if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 279 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory! 

Charles Wolfe. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown 

and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie 

dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are fbwn, and from the shrubs the 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy 
day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November 

rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer 

glow; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty 

stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, 

glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter horn- 1 ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the 

trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill ; 



280 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance 

late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 

more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side; 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast 

the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of 

ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

"William Culled Bryant. 



ASHES OF BOSES. 

Soft on the sunset sky 

Bright daylight closes, 
Leaving, when light doth die, 
Pale hues that mingling lie — 

Ashes of roses. 

When love's warm sun is set, 

Love's brightness closes; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 

Ashes of roses. 

Elaine Good ale. 



CLARIBEL'S PRATE JR. 

The day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills, 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains 
fell ; 

But waking Blue-eyes smiled : " 'T is ever as God wills ; 
He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 't is well ; 
Praise God ! " cried always little Claribel. 

Then sunk she on her knees ; with eager, lifted hands 
Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell : 
" O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands, 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 281 

And make her free, whatever hearts rebel ; 
Amen ! Praise God ! " cried little Claribel. 

And, Father," still arose another pleading prayer, 
" Oh, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell ! 
Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming- hair, 

Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well ! 

Amen! Praise God ! " wept little Claribel. 

But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen swell, 

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so well ; 
Amen ! praise God !" cried little Claribel. 

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer 
night, 
The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell ; 
Oh, shout!" the Herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed 

with light ; 
" 'Tis victory ! Oh, what glorious news to tell ! " 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. 

But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight 

And in the fiery rain? Oh, fought he brave and well?" 

Dear child," the Herald said, "there was no braver sight 

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell ;" 
" Praise God !" cried trembling little Claribel. 

And rides he now with victor's plume of red, 

While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps fore- 
tell?" 
The Herald dropped a tear. " Dear child," he softly said, 
" Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell." 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. 

•With victors, wearing crowns and bearing palms," he 
said, 
And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell ; 
" Oh, sweetest Herald, say my brother lives ! " she plead ; 
" Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel ; 
Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel." 

The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, 

While bitter mourning on the night winds rose and fell. 
; child," the Herald wept, "'tis as the dear Lord wills; 

He knoweth best, and be it life or death, 'tis well." 
"Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel. 

Anonymous 



282 GOLDEN POEMS. 

THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So- silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
"We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 
For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



my slain: 

This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee, 
This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, 

With her unconscious beauty troubleth me, 
With her low prattle maketh me afraid. 

Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so 
You hurt me, though you do not see me cry, 
Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh 

For the dear babe I killed so long ago. 
I tremble at the touch of your caress; 

I am not worthy of your innocent faith, 
I who, with whetted knives of worldliness, 

Did put my own child-heartedness to death, 
Beside whose grave I pace forevermore, 
Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore. 

There is no little child within me now 

To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up 
When June winds kiss me, when an apple-bough 

Laughs into blossom, or a buttercup 
Plays with the sunshine, or a violet 

Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas! 

The meaning of the daisies in the grass 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 283 

I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet 
It is not with the blitheness of the child, 

But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. 
O moaning life, with life irreconciled! 

O backward-looking thought! O pain! O tears! 
For us there is not any silver sound 
Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground. 

Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore 

Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain 

Of that which was miraculous before, 

And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain. 

Woe worth the peering, analytic days 
That dry the tender juices in the breast, 
And put the thunders of the Lord to test, 

So that no marvel must be, and no praise, 
Nor any God except Necessity. 

What can ye give my poor starved life in lieu 
Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye? 

Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew 
My early foolish freshness of the dunce, 
Whose simple instinct guessed the heavens at once^ 

Richard Realf. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 



284 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 
That sweeps his great plateau, 

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
Came down the serried foe. 

Who heard the thunder of the fray 
% Break o'er the field beneath, 

Knew well the watchword of that day 
Was " Victory or death." 

Long has the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath had swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above the mouldering- slain. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 285 

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, 

On many a bloody shield ; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 

Theodore O'Hara. 



SAJSTDS OF DEE 

11 Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 



286 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Across the sands of Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 

And all alone went she. 
The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land: 
And never home came she. 
" O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 
A tress of golden hair, 
Of drowned maiden's hair, — 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes of Dee ?" 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, — - 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, — 
To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 



THREE ROSESA 

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down 
Each with its loveliness as with a crown, 
Drooped in a florist's window in a town. 

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, 

Like flower on flower that night on beauty's breast. 

The second rose, as virginal and fair, 
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair. 

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



INTO THE WORLD AND OUT 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; 
The children laughed so when they saw his eyes. 



PATHOS AND SOEEOW. 287 

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt 

He reached — a pale hand took one rose-bud out. 

" And that was all — quite all ! " No, surely ! But 
The children cried so when his eyes were shut. 

Sallie M. B. Piatt. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting; at the window binding* shoes. 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting stitching in a mournful muse. 
Bright- eyed beauty once was she, 
When the bloom was on the tree ; 
Spring and winter 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 

Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 

"Is there from the fishers any news?" 

Oh her heart 's adrift with one 

On an endless voyage gone! 

Night and morning 

Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 
And the waves are laughing; so! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is passing; 
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild southwester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Plannah 's at the window binding; shoes. 



28S GOLDEN POEMS. 

' T is November ; 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews; 

From Newfoundland, 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely. "Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the rago-ed shore she views ; 

Twenty seasons — 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o 'er the sea ; 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom. 



THE CRADLE. 

How steadfastly she 'd worked at it ! 

How lovingly had drest 
With all her would-be mother's wit 

That little rosy nest ! 

How longingly she 'd hung on it ! — 

It sometimes seemed, she said, 
There lay beneath its coverlet, 

A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest, 

Ere bleak December fled; 
That rosy nest he never prest — 

Her coffin was his bed. 

Austin Dobson. 



AKGELTJS SONG. 

Once at the Angelus 

(Ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious, 

Came to my bed; — 
Angels in blue and white, 

Crowned on the Head. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 289 

One was the Friend I left 

Stark in the snow; 
One was the Wife that died 

Long — long ago; 
One was the Love I lost — 

How could she know? 

One had my Mother's eyes, 

Wistful and mild; 
One had my Father's face; 

One was a Child; 
A.11 of them bent to me, — 

Bent down and smiled. 

Austin Dobson. 



« WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME." 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Head to foot where I am lying ; 
When not any wind that blows, 
Summer blooms nor winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing ; 
Close above me as you pass, 
You will say, " How kind she was," 
You will say, "How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to Earths warm bosom ; 
While I laugh, or weep, or sing 
Nevermore for anything ; 
You will find in blade and blossom, 
Sweet, small voices, odorous, 
Tender pleaders in my cause, 
That shall speak me as I was — 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient, I can wait — 
Knowing that or soon or late, 
There will dawn a clearer morrow ; 
When your heart will moan, "Alas ! 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she was," 
When the grass grows over me ! 
19 Anonymous. 



290 GOLDEN POEMS. 

TWO MYSTERIES. 

["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the 
nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded 
by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked won- 
deringly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 
'Yon don't know what it is, do you, my dear ? ' said he, and added, ' We d^n't, 
either.' " ] 

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; 
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and 

chill; 
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and 

call; 
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; 
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; 
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go^ 
Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. 

But this we know : Our loved and dead, if they should 

come this day — 
Should come and ask us, " What is life ? " not one of us 

could say. 
Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be ; 
Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see ! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — and blessed is 

the thought, 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may show you 

naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal the myster}^ of death — 
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, 
So those who enter death must go as little children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; 
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 



"0 MIT HER, DINNA DEE!" 

" O batk^, when I am dead, 

How shall ye keep frae harm ? 
What hand will gie ye bread ? 
What fire will keep ye w T arm ? 
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me ?" 
"O mither, d'uma dee !" 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 291 

" O bairn, by night or day 

I hear nae sounds ava', 
But voices of winds that blaw, 

And the voices of ghaists that say, 
Come awa' ! come awa' ! 
The Lord that made the wind and made the sea 
Is hard on my bairn and me, 
And I melt in his breath like snaw. a " 
"O mither, dinna dee ! " 

" O bairn, it is but closing up the een, 
And lying down never to rise again. 
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen,— 

There is nae pain ! 
I 'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why ; 
My summer has gone by, 
And sweet were sleep, bat for the sake o' thee." 



" O mither, dinna dee ! 



Robert Buchanan. 



MY HEART AND I. 

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I; 
We sit beside the headstone thus, 
And wish the name were carved for us; 

The moss reprints more tenderly 

The hard types of the mason's knife, 

As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life, 

With which we're tired, my heart and I. 

You see we're tired, my heart and I; 
We dealt with books, we trusted men, 
And in our own blood drenched the pen, 

As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortune's end, 
We loved too true to keep a friend; 

At last we're tired, my heart and I. 

How tired we feel, my heart and I; 

We seem of no use in the world; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men's eyes indifferently; 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 

You sleep; our tears are only wet; 
What do we here, my heart and I? 



292 GOLDEN POLMS. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 
It was not thus in that old time 
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 

To watch the sun set from the sky: 

" Dear Love, you're looking tired," he said; 
I, smiling at him, shook my head ; 

'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

Though now none takes me on his arm 
To fold me close and kiss me warm, 

Till each quick breath ends in a sigh 
Of happy languor. Now, alone 
We lean upon his graveyard stone,. 

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

Yet, who complains? My heart and I? 
In this abundant (earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out ; 

Disdain them, break them, throw them by ; 
And if before the days grew rough, 
We once were loved, then — well enough 

I think we 've fared, my heart and I. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



ROSALIE. 

When thou, in all thy loveliness, 

Sweet Rosalie, wert mine, 
Of Earth's one more, of Heaven's one less, 

I counted things divine. 

But since the lilies o'er thy breast 

Out of the sweetness spring, 
Of love's delight I miss the rest 

And keep alone the sting. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 293 

Till now T reckon things divine 

Not as I did before; 
Earth's share has dwindled down to mine, 

And Heaven has all the more. 

William C. Richards. 



BEQUIESCAT. 

Tread lightly, she is near, 

Under the snow ; 
Speak gently, she can hear 

The daisies grow. 

All her bright golden hair 

Tarnished with rust, 
She that was young and fair 

Fallen to dust. 

Lily-like, white as snow, 

She hardly knew 
She was a woman, so 

Sweetly she grew. 

Coffin-board, heavy stone, 

Lie on her breast ; 
I vex my heart alone, 

She is at rest. 

Peace, peace; she cannot hear 

Lyre or sonnet ; 
All my life's buried here — 

Heap earth upon it. 

Oscar Wilde. 



THE OLD SEXTOJST. 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 

Leaned a sexton old on his earth- worn spade; 

His work was done, and he paused to wait 

The funeral train at the open gate. 

A relic of by-gone days was he, 

And his locks were as white as the foamy sea; 

And these words came from his lips so thin: 



294 GOLDEN POEMS. 

" I gather them in — I gather them in — 
Gather — gather — I gather them in. 

" I gather them in; for man and boy, 
Year after year of grief and joy, 
I 've builded the houses that lie around 
In every nook of this burial ground. 
Mother and daughter, father and son, 
Come to my solitude one by one; 
But come they stranger, or come they kin, 
I gather them in — I gather them in. 

" Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; 
I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 
On a monument slab of marble cold — 
My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 
Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, 
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! 
May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 
I gather them in — I gather them in. 

" I gather them in, and their final rest 
Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast ! " 
And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train 
Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; 
And I said to myself : When time is told, 
A mightier voice than that sexton's old 
Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din: 

"I gather them in — I gather them in — 
Gather — gather — gather them in." 

Pakk Benjamin. 



"ONLY A YEAR!' 

One year ago, — a ringing voice, 

A clear blue eye, 
And clustering curls of sunny hair, 

Too fair to die. 

Only a year, — no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 
No clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair but to die ! 

One year ago, — what loves, what schemes 

Far into life ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 295 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone ! 

One year, — one year, — one little year, 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 

Above that head; 
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 

Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of merry birds 

That sing above, 
Tell us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

"Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 

What hast thou seen, — 
What visions fair, what glorious life, 

Where thou hast been? 

The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 

'Twixt us and thee; 
The ir^stic veil ! when shall it fall, 

That we may see? 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 

But present still, 
And waiting for the corning hour 

Of God's sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Savior dear ! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 

This sad, sad year. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



BEFORE SEDAN. 

Here in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies ; 



296 GOLDEN POEMS. 

'T is but another dead ; — 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 

Kings must have slaves ; 
Kings climb to eminence 

Over men's graves. 
So this man's eye is dim ; — 
Throw the earth over him. 

"What was the white you touched, 

There at his side ? 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died ; 
Message or wish, may be : — 
Smooth out the folds and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled ! — 

Only the tremulous 
Words of a child : — 

Prattle, that had for stops 

Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. She is sad to miss, 

Morning and night, 
His — her dead father's — kiss, 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. " Marguerite" 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain ! 
Ah, if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain ! 
If the grief died ! — But no : — 
Death will not have it so. 

Austin Dobsoit. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 297 

And there the langest tarry; 

For there I took the last fareweel 

O' ray sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and looked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



MY PLAYMATE. 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 
Their song was soft and low; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
The orchard birds sang clear; 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 



298 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And took with hor the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine; 
What more could ask the bashful boy 

Who fed her father's kine r 

She left us in the bloom of May; 

The constant years told o'er 
'Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 

But she came back no more. 
I walk with noiseless feet the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There, haply, with her jeweled hands 
She smooths her silken gown, 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill, 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Follymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond ; 

The bird builds in the tree ; 
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems; 

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice : 

Does she remember mine? 
And what to her is now the boy 

Who fed her father's kine? 

What cares she that the orioles build 

For other eyes than ours ; 
That other hands with nuts are filled, 

And ether laps with flowers. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 299 

O playmate in the golden time ! 

Our mossy seat is green ; 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 

A sweeter memory blow ; 
And there in spring the veeries sing 

The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 

Are moaning like the sea, — 
The moaning of the sea of change 

Between myself and thee. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap^ 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 



300 GOLDEN POEMS. 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 301 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on. mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetful ness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 



302 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend, 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 



LUCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky, 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and Oh, 

The difference to me ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 303 



I traveled among unknown men 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England, did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ; 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, 

The bowers where Lucy played ; 
And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 

William Wordsworth. 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 
This child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm, 

Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 



304 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Nor shall she fail to see 
E'en in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place, 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to rne 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 
And never more will be. 

William Wordsworth. 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; 



PATHOS AND SOKKOW. 305 

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking- to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 



UNDER THE DAISIES. 

I have just been learning the lesson of life, 

The sad, sad lesson of loving, 
And all of its power for pleasure and pain 

Been slowly, sadly proving; 
And all that is left of the bright, bright dream, 

With its thousand brilliant phases, 
Is a handful of dust in a coffin hid — 

A coffin under the daisies; 

The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And thus forever throughout the world 

Is love a sorrow proving; 
There's many a sad, sad thing in life, 

But the saddest of all is loving. 
Life often divides far wider than death; 

Stern fortune the high wall raises; 
But better far than two hearts estranged 

Is a low grave starred with daisies; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And so I am glad that we lived as we did, 
Through the summer of love together, 

And that one of us, wearied, lay down to rest, 
Ere the coming of winter weather;. 

For the sadness of love is love grown cold, 
And 't is one of its surest phases; 

So I bless my God, with a breaking heart, 



20 



For that grave enstarred with daisies; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

Hattie Tyng Griswold. 



306 GOLDEN POEMS. 

LUCY'S FLIT TUT. 

' T was when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa' in', 

And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, 
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't 

And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. 
For Lucy had served in " The Glen " a' the simmer; 

She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; 
An orphan Was she, and they had been gude till her, 

Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. 

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stanin', 

Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see : 
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! quo Jamie, and ran in; 

The gathcrin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. 
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin', 

Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! was ilka bird's sang ; 
She heard the craw sayin' 't, high on the tree sittin', 

And robin was chirpin' 't the brown leaves amang. 

Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter ? 

And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? 
If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 

Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? 
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; 

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; 
I fear I ha'e tint my puir heart a'thegither, 

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 

W»' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon, 

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me; 
Yestreen, when he ga'e me 't, and saw I was sabbin', 

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! 

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see; 
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! 

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. 

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit ; 

The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea ; 
But Lucy likes Jamie; — she turned and she lookit, 

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. 
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, 

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; 
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, 

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return. 

William Laidlaw. 



PATHOS AND SOREOW. 307 

WE ARE S EVE 1ST. 

A simple child, 
That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage girl: 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad: 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — 
Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You sajr that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 



308 GOLDEN POEMS. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And, all the summer dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow, 
And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then, " said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 

The little maiden did reply, 
" O master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, "Nay, we are seven !" 

William Wordsworth. 



THE BANKS O* DOOIST. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
An' I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 

Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons through the flowering thorn : 

Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed — never to return. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 309 

Thou 'It break ray heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wistna o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 

And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
And fondly sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert Burns. 



MY LOVE IS DEAD. 

O, sing unto my roundelay ! 

O, drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holiday ; 
Like a running river be. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Black his hair as the summer night, 
White his neck as the winter snow, 

Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
Cold he lies in the grave below. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 

Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
Del't his tabor, cudgel stout ; 

O, he lies by the willow-tree. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the brier'd dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead, etc. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 
Whiter than the morning sky, 



310 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Here upon my true-love's grave 
Shall the barren flowers be laid, 

Nor one holy saint to save 
All the coldness of a maid. 
My love is dead, etc. 

With my hands I '11 bind the briers 

Round his holy corse togre ; 
Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; 

Here my body still shall be. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 

Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 

Bear me to your lethal tide. 
I die ! I come ! my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Chatterton. 



JSTEVEBMOBE. 

No more — no more — O, nevermore on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee: 

Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 

Alas ! 't was not in them, but in thy power 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

Lord Byron {Don Juan). 



BREAK, BBEAK, BBEAK. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 311 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay. 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A LIFE. 

Day dawned; — within a curtained room, 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 

Day closed; — a child had seen the light; 
But for the lady, fair and bright, 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose; — the lady's grave was green, 

And near it oftentimes was seen 

A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled; — he wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died! Behold before ye 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. 

Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall.) 



"IT MIGHT RAVE BEEN." 

With heavy head bent on her yielding hand, 

And half-flushed cheek, bathed in a fevered light — ■ 

With restless lips, and most unquiet eyes, 
A maiden sits and looks out on the nigr-ht. 

The darkness presses close against the pane, 



312 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And silence lieth on the elm tree old, 
Through whose wide branches steals the white-faced moon 
In fitful gleams, as though 't were bold. 

She hears the wind upon the pavement fall, 

And lifts her head, as if to listen there ; 
Then wearily she taps against the pane, 

Or folds more close the ripples of her hair ; 
She sings unto herself an idle strain, 

And through its music all her thoughts are seen ; 
For all the burden of the song she sings 

Is, " O my God ! it might have been ! " 

Alas ! that words like these should have the power 

To crush the roses of her early youth — 
That on her altar of remembrance sleeps 

Some hope, dismantled of its love and truth — 
That 'mid the shadows of her memory lies 

Some grave, moss-covered, where she loves to lean, 
And sadly sing unto the form therein, 

" It might have been — O God! it might have been ! " 

We all have in our hearts some hidden place, 

Some secret chamber where a cold corpse lies — 
The drapery of whose couch we dress anew 

Each day, beneath the pale glare of its eyes ; 
We go from its still presence to the sun, 

To seek the pathways where it once was seen, 
And strive to still the throbbing of our hearts 

With this wild cry, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

We mourn in secret o'er some buried love 

In the far past, whence love doesjiot return, 
And strive to find among its ashes grey 

Some lingering spark that yet may live and burn ; 
And when we see the vainness of our task, 

We flee away, far from the hopeless scene, 
And folding close our garments o'er our hearts, 

Cry to the winds, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

Where'er we go, in sunlight or in shade, 

We mourn some jewel which the heart has missed — 
Some brow we touched in days long since gone by — 

Some lips whose freshness and first dew we kissed ; 
We shut out from our eyes the happy light 

Of sunbeams dancing on the hill-side green, 
And, like the maiden, ope them to the light 

And cry, like her, " O God ! it might have been ! " 

Anonymous. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 313 

THE HOUR OF DEATH 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death 1 

Day is for mortal care; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth ; 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth and song and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhalming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam; 
Thou art where music melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home; 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, . 
And flowers to wither at the north- wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Felicia Dokothea Hemans. 



314 GOLDEN POEMS. 

WALT, WALT, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 

waly, waly up the bank, 
And waly, waly down the brae, 

And waly, waly yon burn side, 

Where I and my love wont to gae. 

1 leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak, 
Sae my true love did lightly me ! 

O waly, waly, but love be bonny, 

A little time wh le it is new ; 
But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld, 

And fades away like the morning dew. 

But had I wist, before I kissed, 
That love had been sae ill to win, 

I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 
And pinned it with a silver pin. 

O wherefore should I busk my head ? 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

And says he '11 never love me m air. 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 

gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I 'm wearie. 

'T is not the frost that freezes fell, 
Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 

5 T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But ray love's heart grown cauld to me. 

Anonymous. 



THE MITHERLESS BATRN. 

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 
5 T is the poor doited loonie — the mitherless bairn ! 

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; 

Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 315 

His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, 
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! 

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 

O, speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn 
That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn ! 

William Thom. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 

[In the Ikish Famine of '47.] 
Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow, 

OGod above? 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love? 
A deadly gloom is on us, waking, sleeping, 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation; 

Around us cries of famine and despair; 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation— 

Where, O where? 
If the angels ever hearken, downwird bending, 

They are weeping, we are sure, 
At the litanies of human groans ascending 

From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

When the human rest in love upon the human, 
All grief is light; 



316 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God has only made the rich to smile; 
But we in rags and want and woe — we follow after, 

Weeping the while. 

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, 

Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave; 
A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is our life's journey to the grave; 
Day by day we lower sink and lower, 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of poverty and sin. 

We must toil, though the light of life is burning, 

Oh, how dim! 
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, 

With scarce moved breath, 
While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, 
4 ' Lord, grant us death!" 

Lady Wilde (Speranza). 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago, 

When first you were my bride; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary — ■ 

The day is bright as then; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You nevermore will speak. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 317 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near — 
The church where we were wed, Mary, 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 

I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends; 
But, O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessin' and my pride; 
There's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was gone; 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile, 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 

And you hid it for my sake; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
O, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, 

My Mary, kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I 'm goin' to; 
They say there 's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 



318 GOLDEN POEMS. 

To the place where Mary lies; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' corn, and the bright Mav morn 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Duffekin. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

"Busk: ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?" 
" I gat her where I daur na weel be seen, 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 

Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 

" Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ?" 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep- 
Lang maun she weep wi' dule and sorrow ; 

And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" For she has tint her luver, luver dear — 

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow ; 
And I hae slain the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid ? 

Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? 

" What 's yonder floats upo' the rueful, rueful flude ? 

What 's yonder floats? — Oh, dule and sorrow I 
'T is he, the comely swain I slew 

Upo' the dulefu' braes of Yarrow. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 319 

" Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, 

His wounds in tears, wi' dule and sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 

And lay him on the braes of* Yarrow. 

" Then build, then build, ye sisters, ye sisters sad, 

Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow ; 
And weep around, in waeful wise, 

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, 

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, 
The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to luve, 
And warn from fight ? But, to my sorrow, 

Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st, 
Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 

" Sweet smells the birk ; green grows, green grows the 
grass ; 

Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan ; 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock ; 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin' ! 

" Flows Yarrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed ; 

As green its grass ; its gowan as yeilow ; 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk ; 

The apple from its rocks as mellow ! 

" Fair was thy luve ! fair, fair indeed thy luve ! 

In flowery bands thou didst him fetter ; 
Though he was fair, and weel-beluved again, 

Than I he never loved thee better. 

" Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." 

"How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How luve him on the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

" Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, 

Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover ! 
For there was basely slain my luve, 

My luve, as he had not been a luver. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, 



320 GOLDEN POEMS. 

His purple vest— ? t was my ain sevun' ; 
Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenned 
He was in these to meet his ruin. 

" The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, 

Unmindful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the toofa' of the night, 

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow ! 

" Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day ; 

1 sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my luve and left me mourning. 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, 

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
My luver's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be proud; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffin' 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow's braes, 

My luver nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 

And strive with threatening words to muve me J 

My luver's blood is on thy spear — 

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve ! 

With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 

Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

" But who the expected husband, husband is? 

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter ! 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after? 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down'; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, 

And crown my rueful head with willow. 

" Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beluved, 
Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Yet lie all night within my arms, 

No youth lay ever there before thee ! 

" Pale, pale indeed, O luvely, luvely youth! 
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 321 

And lie all night within my arms, 
No youth shall ever lie there after ! • 

" Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride ! 

Return, and dry thy useless sorrow ! 
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs ; 

He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 

William Hamilton. 



SHE AND HE. 

" She is dead ! " they said to him. " Come away; 
Kiss her ! and leave her ! — thy love is clay ! " 

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; 
On her forehead of marble they laid it fair; 

Over her eyes, which gazed too much, 
They drew the lids with a gentle touch; 

With a tender touch they closed up well 
The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to tell; 

About her brows, and her dear, pale face, 
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace; 

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes; — 
Which were the whiter no eye could choose ! 

And over her bosom they crossed her hands; 
"Come away," they said, — " God understands ! " 

And then there was Silence; — and nothing there 
But the Silence — and scents of eglantere, 

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; 

For they said, " As a lady should lie, lies she ! " 

And they held their breath as they left the room, 
With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom. 

But he — who loved her too well to dread 
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead — 

He lit his lamp, and took the key, 

And turn'd it ! — Alone again — he and she I 

He and she; but she would not speak, 

Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek; 

He and she; yet she would not smile, 
21 



322 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile. 

He and she; and she did not move 

To any one passionate whisper of love ! 

Then he said, " Cold lips ! and breast without breath ! 
Is there no voice? — no language of death 

,4 Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
But to heart and to soul distinct — intense ? 

" See, now, — I listen with soul, not ear — ■ 
What was the secret of dying, Dear? 

"Was it the infinite wonder of all, 
That you ever could let life's flower fall? 

" Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? 

"Was the miracle greatest to find how deep, 
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep? 

" Did life roll backward its record, Dear, 
And show, as they say it does, past things clear? 

" And was it the innermost heart of the bliss 
To find out so what a wisdom love is? 

" Oh, perfect Dead ! oh, Dead, most dear, 
I hold the breath of my soul to hear; 

" I listen — as deep as to horrible hell, 
A.s high as to heaven ! — and you do not tell ! 

" There must be pleasures in dying, Sweet, 
To make you so placid from head to feet ! * 

" I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead, 
And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed. 

"I would say, though the angel of death had laid 
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 

" You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, 
Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise; 

"The very strangest and suddenest thing 
Of all the surprises that dying must bring." 

* •" * '# 4e * 

Ah ! foolish world ! Oh ! most kind Dead ! 
Though he told me, who will believe it was said? 

Who will believe that he heard her say, 

With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way: — 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 323 

" The utmost wonder is this, — I hear, 
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear; 

"J can speak, now you listen with soul alone; 
If your soul could see, it would all be shown 

" What a strange delicious amazement is Death, 
To be without body and breathe without breath. 

"I should laugh for joy if you did not cry; 
Oh, listen ! Love lasts ! — Love never will die. 

"I am only your Angel who was your Bride; 
And I know that though dead, 1 have never died." 

Edwin Arnold. 



WHO NE'ER HIS BREAD IN SORROW ATE. 

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate — 
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours 

Weeping upon his bed hath sate— 

He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 

{From the German.) 



THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west, 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, 
And the children stood watching them out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 

Th°y looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. 

But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 



324 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For those who will never come home to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep ; 
And good by to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingslet. 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the one, the Blue ; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 
In the dusk of eternity meet ; — 
Under the sod and the dew r , 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the laurel, the Blue ; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe ; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day ; — 
Under the roses, the Blue ; 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all; — • 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day;— 
'Broidered with gold, the Blue; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 
On forest and field of grain 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 325 

With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain; — • 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment-day; — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment- day;-— 
Under the blossoms, the Blue; 
Under the garlands, the Gray, 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 
Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment- day; — 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

Feancis Miles Finch. 



DECORATION BAT AT CHARLESTON. 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, — 
Sleep, mariyrs of a fallen cause ! 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilo-rim here to pause, 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 



326 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 

Henry Timrod. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER* 

Close his eyes; his work is done! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon or set of sun, 

Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

As man .may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars ? — 
What but death bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye : 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by ; 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 

* Maj. Gen. Philip Kearney. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 327 

THE UJ^RE TURNING BRAVE. 

We sit here in the Promised Land 

That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; 
But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, 

Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — 
Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, 
Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, 
But the sad strings complain, 
And will not please the ear ; 
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, 
Dark to the triumph which they died to gain. 
Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving ! 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead, 
Who went, and who returned not. — Say not so ! 
'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay, 
But the high faith that failed not by the way ; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 

And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. 

James Russell Lowell {Commemoration Ode). 



LORD RAGLAN. 

Ah ! not because our Soldier died before his field was won ; 
Ah ! not because life would not last till life's long task 

were done, 
Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief, — of all our 

hosts that led 
Not last in work and worth approved, Lord Raglan lieth dead. 

His nobleness he had of none,War's Master taught him war, 
And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips can 

mar ; 
Gone to his grave, his duty done ; if farther any seek, 
lie left his life to answer them, — a soldier's, — let it speak! 



328 GOLDEN POEMS. 

'T was his to sway a blunted sword, — to fight a fated field, 
While idle tongues talked victory, to struggle not to yield; 
Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan a field for fight, 
Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that field 
aright. 

Tears have been shed for the brave dead ; mourn him who 

mourned for all ! 
Praise hath been given for strife well striven, praise him 

who strove o'er all, 
Nor count that conquest little, though no banner flaunt it far, 
That under him our English hearts beat Pain and Plague 

and War. 

And if he held those English hearts too good to pave the path 
To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hath? 
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and 'mid his soldiers 

seen, 
His work was aye as stern as theirs ; oh ! make his grave 

as green. 

They know him well, the Dead who died that Russian 

wrong should cease, 
Where fortune doth not measure men, their souls and his 

have peace ; 
Aye ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody strife, 
For English homes our English Chief gave what he had — 

his life. 

Edwin Arnold. 



VAZZJ* 

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum" When 

For me the end has come, and I am dead, 
And little voluble chattering daws of men 

Peck at me curiously, let it then be said 
By some one brave enough to speak the truth : 

Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. 
Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth, 

To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword, and song, 
And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, 

He wrought for Liberty, till his own wound 
(He had been stabbed), concealed with painful art 

* Written immediately before his suicide. 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 329 

Through wasting years, mastered him, and he swooned, 
And sank there where you see him lying now, 
With that word "Failure " written on his brow. 

But say that he succeeded. If he missed 

World's honors, and world's plaudits, and the wage 
Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed 

Daily by those high angels who assuage 
The thirstings of the poets — for he was 

Born unto singing, and a burthen lay 
Mightily on him, and he moaned because 

He could not rightly utter in the day 
What God taught in the night. Sometimes, nathless, 

Power fell upon him, arid bright tongues of flame, 
And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress, 

And benedictions from black pits of shame, 
And little children's love, and old men's prayers, 
And a Great Hand that led him unawares. 

So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred 

With thick films — silence ! he is in his grave. 
Greatly he suffered; greatly, too, he erred ; 

Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. 
Nor did he wait till Freedom had become 

The popular shibboleth of the courtier's lips, 
But smote for her when God Himself seemed dumb 

And all His arching skies were in eclipse. 
He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, 

And stood for simple manhood ; and was joyed 
To see the august broadening of the light, 

And new earths heaving heavenward from the void. 
He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet — 
Plant daisies at his head and at his feet. 

Richard Realf. 



DICKENS IJST CAMP. 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 



330 ] GOLDEN POEMS. 

Till one arose, and from his pack 's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew, 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, 

To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of "Little Nell." 

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall : 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 
While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 

And he who wrought that spell ? — 
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop vines' incense all the pensive glory 

That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths in twine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— 

This spray of Western pine. 

Bret Harte. 



OBSEQUIES OF DAVID THE PAINTER. 

[Ex-Member op the French National Convention.] 
The pass is barred ! " Fall back ! " cries the guard ; " cross 

not the French frontier ! " 
As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the funeral drew 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 331 

For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no plume, no pall 

can hide, 
That jon hearse contains the sad remains of a banished 

regicide ! 
" But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his children to 

the guard ; 
"Let his noble art plead on his part — let a grave be his 

reward ! 
France knew his name in her hour of fame nor the aid of 

his pencil scorned ; 
Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs he adorned!" 

" That corpse can't pass! 'tis my duty, alas! " said the fron- 
tier sentinelle, — 
" But pity take for his country's sake, and his clay do not 

repel 
From its kindred earth, from the land of his birth !'" cried 

the mourners in their turn ; 
" Oh, give to France the inheritance of her painter's funeral 

urn : 
His pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the pithless Mont 

Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse : — let a grave be 

his reward ! 
For he loved this land — aye, his dying hand to paint her 

fame he'd lend her : 
Let his passport be the memory of his native country's 

splendor! " 

"Ye cannot pass," said the guard, " alas!" (for tears be- 
dim med his eyes) 

" Though France may count to pass that mount a glorious 
enterprise;" 

" Then pity take for fair Freedom's sake," cried the mourn- 
ers once again; 

"Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of Spartan men; 

Did not his art to them impart life's breath, that France 
might see 

What a patriot few in the gap could do at old Thermop- 
ylae? 

Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the youthful 
bosom fired! 

Let his passport be the memory of the valor he inspired." 

" Ye cannot pass," — " Soldier, alas! a dismal boon we crave; 
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his friends may 
dig a grave? 



332 GOLDEN POEMS. 

O, pity take, for that hero's sake whom he gloried to por- 
tray 

With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his coronation day. 

Amid that band the withered hand of an aged pontiff rose, 

And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, forgiving his 
own woes; 

He drew that scene — nor dreamed, I ween, that yet a little 
while 

And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off in a lonely 
isle!" 

"I am charged, alas! not to let you pass," said the sorrow- 
ing sentinelle; 

"His destiny must also be a foreign grave!" — "'T is well ! 

Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a place of rest, 

And to bear away his banished clay from the land that he 
loved best. 

But let us hence ! sad recompense for the lustre that he 
cast, 

Blending the rays of modern days with the glories of the 
past ! 

Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless my mind 
doth err); 

And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's sepul- 
chre ! " 

Francis Mahont (Father Prout), 

(From the French of Beranger). 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 

" And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?" 
My sister asked our guest one winter's day. 
Smiling he answered in the Friends' sweet way 
Common to both: " Wherever thou shalt send ! 
What wouldst thou have me see for thee? 1 ' She laughed, 

Her dark eyes dancing in the wood-fire's glow: 
" Loffoden isles, the Kilpis, and the low 
Unsetting sun on Finmark's fishing-craft." 
"All these and more I soon shall see for thee ! " 
He answered cheerily: and he kept his pledge 
On Lapland's snow, the North Cape's windy wedge, 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 333 

And Tromso freezing in its winter sea. 

He went and came. But no man knows the track 
Of his last journey, and he comes not bask ! 

He brought us wonders of the new and old; 

We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent 

To him its story-telling secret lent, 
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. 
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure, 

In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought; 

From humble home-lays to the heights of thought 
Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. 
How, with the generous pride that friendship hath, 

We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown 

Of civic honor on his brows pressed down, 
Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death. 

And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears 

Two nations speak, we answer but with tears ! 

O Vale of Chester ! trod by him so oft, 

Green as thy June turf keep his memory. Let 
Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget, 

Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft ; 

Let the home voices greet him in the far, 

Strange land that holds him ; let the messages 
Of love pursue him o'er the chartless seas 

And unmapped vastness of his unknown star ! 

Love's language, heard beyond the loud discourse 
Of perishable fame, in every sphere 
Itself interprets ; and its utterance here 

Somewhere in God's unfolding universe 

Shall reach our traveler, softening the surprise 
Of his rapt gaze on unfamiliar skies. 

John Greenlkaf Whittier. 



HORACE GREELEY. 

Earth, let thy softest mantle rest 

On this worn child to thee returning, 
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast, 

Who loved thee with such tender yearning. 
He knew thy fields and woodland ways, 

And deemed thy humblest son his brother ; — 
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise, 

We yield him back, O gentle Mother J 



334 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill ; 

Who has not read the life-long story ? 
And dear we hold his fame, but still 

The man was dearer than his glory. 
And now to us are left alone 

The closet where his shadow lingers, 
The vacant chair — that was a throne, — 

The pen just fallen from his fingers. 

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen, 

Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey; 
One flash from out the cloud, and then 

The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 
Of hate he surely lacked the art, 

Who made his enemy his lover: 
O reverend head, and Christian heart ! 

Where now their like the round wor^d over? 

He saw the goodness, not the taint, 

In many a poor, do-nothing creature, 
And gave to sinner and to saint, 

But kept his faith in human nature; 
Perchance he was not worldly-wise, 

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, 

For every weakness held him dearer. 

Alas, that unto him who gave 

So much, so little should be given ! 
Himself alone he might not save, 

Of ail for whom his hands had striven. 
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed; 

Men took, and passed, and left him lonely; — 
What marvel if, beneath his load, 

At times he craved — for justice only. 

Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth, 

His lofty purpose could not alter; 
Toil had no power to bend his youth, 

Or make his lusty manhood falter; 
Prom envy's sling, from slander's dart, 

That armored soul the body shielded, 
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart, 

And then he bowed his head and yielded. 

Now, now, we measure at its worth 
The gracious presence gone forever ! 



PATHOS AND SORROW. 335 

The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 

Laments with every laboring river; 
Wiid moan the free winds of the West 

For him who gathered to her prairies 
The sons of men, and made each crest 

The haunt of happy household fairies; 

And anguish sits upon the mouth 

Of her who came to know him latest: 
His heart was ever thine, O South ! 

He was thy truest friend, and greatest ! 
He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 

He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow; 
The day thou shalt forget his name, 

Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 

The tears that fall from eyes unused, 

The hands above his grave united, 
The words of men whose lips he loosed, 

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, — 
Could he but know, and rest with this ! 

Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, 
His one last foe's insatiate hiss 

On that benignant shade would follow ! 

Peace ! while we shroud this man of men, 

Let no unhallowed word be spoken ! 
He will not answer thee again, 

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
Some holier cause, some vaster trust 

Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
O gently, Earth, receive his dust, 

And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit ! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



FAME WELL. 

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another, 
And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake; 

The same year beckons, and younger with elder brother, 
Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all must take; 

They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come, — 

And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsuug them are 
dumb. 



336 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Time takes them home that we loved — fair names and fam- 
ous — 
To the soft, long sleep, to the broad, sweet bosom of death; 
But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to 
shame us, 
Nor the lips lack song forever, that now lack breath; 
For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell, 
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we — fare- 
well ! 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



PART X. 



&Jje better Jitfe, 

22 (337) 



I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
Brightened ivithjoy ; for from within were heard 
Murmiirings, tvhereby the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
Adore, and worship, when you know it not; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 



THE BETTER LIFE, 



HEARD ARE THE VOICES. 

But heard are the voices, 
Heard are the Sages, 
The worlds and the ages : 
Choose well, your choice is 
Brief and yet endless. 

" Here eyes do regard you 
In eternity's stillness, 
Here is all fullness, 
The brave, to reward you ; 
Work, and despair not." 

Thomas Carlyle {from Goethe). 



HOW TO LIVE. 

He liveth long who liveth well ! 

All other life is short and vain ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of living most for heavenly gain. 

He liveth long who liveth well ! 

All else is being flung away ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of true things truly done each day. 

"Waste not thy being; back to Him 
Who freely gave it, freely give ; 
Else is that being but a dream ; 
'Tis but to 5e, and not to live. 

Be what thou seemest ! live thy creed ! 

Hold up to earth the torch divine ; 
Be what thou prayest to be made ; 

Let the great Master's steps be thine. 

(339) 



340 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Fill up each hour with what will last ; 

Buy up the moments as they go ; 
The life above, when this is past, 

Is the ripe fruit of life below. 

Sow truth, if thou the truth wouldst reap : 
Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; 

Erect and sound thy conscience keep ; 
From hollow words and deeds refrain. 

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure ; 

Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright ; 
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, 

And find a harvest-home of light. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



A SAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught, 
That serveth not another's will ; 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray, 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend ; 

This man is freed from servile bands, 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry "W ottos'. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 341 

GRADATUL 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true, 

That a noble deed is a step toward God, 
Lifting the soul from the common sod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under our feet ; 
By what we have mastered of good and gain, 
By the pride deposed and passion slain, 

And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
When the morning calls us to life and light; 
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night 

Our lives are trailing in sordid dust. 

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, 

And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Wings for the angels, but feet for men ! 
We borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray, 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 
But the dreams depart and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



A HINDOO'S SEARCH FOR TRUTH. 

All the world over I wonder, in lands that I never have trod, 
Are the people eternally seeking for signs and steps of a God? 
Westward across the ocean, and northward beyond the snow, 
Do all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know? 



342 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Here in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm, 
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a 

gathering storm ; 
In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are 

seen, 
Yet we all say, " Whence is the message, and what may the 

wonders mean ?" 

A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings, 
As they bow to mystical symbol or the figures of ancient 

kings ; 
And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry 
Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loth to die. 

For the destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of 
the hills: 

Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the shot 
that kills; 

Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand un- 
known, 

We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone. 

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, ttfe first of an ancient 

name, 
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who 

died in flame ; 
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits 

who guard our race: 
Ever I watch and worship; they sit with a marble face. 

And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of mutter- 
ing priests, 

The revels and rites unholy, the dark unspeakable feasts ! 

What have they wrung from the silence ? Hath even a 
whisper come 

Of the secret — whence and whither ? Alas ! for the gods 
are dumb. 

Shall I list the word of the English, who come from the 
uttermost sea ? — 

The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your mes- 
sage to me ? — 

It is naught but the wide-world story how the earth and the 

heavens began, ' A~ 

How the gods are glad and angry, and a Uiety once was <9~eX^J 
man. 

I had thought, " Perchance in the cities where the rulers of 
India dwell, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 646 

Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth 

with a spell, 
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the 

unknown main — " 
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is 

vain. 

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the 

dreamer awake ? 
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the 

mirror break ? 
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is 

gathered and gone 
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning 

are level and lone ? 

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the hail and 

the levin are hurled, 
But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the 

rolling world ? 
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence 

and sleep, 
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of 

women who weep ? 

A. C. Lyall (Translation). 



RESPONSES. 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle; 

Out from the heart of Nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 

Wrought in a sad sincerity; 

Himself from God he could not free; 

He builded be.ter than he knew — 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost, 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 



344 GOLDEN POEMS. 

In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson {The Problem). 



BE PROFTJNDIS. 

The face which, duly as the sun, 
Rose up for me with life begun, 
To mark all bright hours of the day 
With daily love, is dimmed away — ■ 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

The tongue which, like a stream, could run 
Smooth music from the roughest stone, 
And every morning with " Good-day" 
Made each day good, is hushed away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

The heart which, like a staff, was one 
For mine to lean and rest upon, 
The strongest on the longest day 
With steadfast love, is caught away — 
And yet my days go, go on. 

And cold before my summer 's done, 
And deaf in Nature's general tune, 
And fallen too low for special fear, 
And here, with hope no longer here — 
While the tears drop, my days go on. 

The world goes whispering to its own, 
"This anguish pierces to the bone." 

And tender friends go sighing round, 
" What love can ever cure this wound ?" 

My days go on, my days go on. 

The past rolls forward on the sun 
And makes all night. O dreams begun, 
Not to be ended ! Ended bliss ! 
And life, that will not end in this ! 
My days go on, my days go on. 

Breath freezes on my lips to moan ; 
As one alone, once not alone* 



THE BETTER LIFE. 345 

I sit and knock at Nature's door, 
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, 
Whose desolated days go on. 

I knock and cry . . . Undone, undone ! 
Is there no help, no comfort . . . none? 
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
Where others drive their loaded wains? 
My vacant days go on, go on. 

This Nature, though the snows be down, 
Thinks kindly of the bird of June. 
The little red hip on the tree 
Is ripe for such. What is for me, 
Whose days so winterly go on? 

No bird am I to sing in June, 
And dare not ask an equal boon. 
Good nests and berries red are Nature's 
To give away to better creatures. 
And yet my days go on, go on. 

I ask less kindness to be done- 
Only to loose these pilgrim -shoon 
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet 
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, „ 

Till days go out which now go on. 

Only to lift the turf unmown 
From off the earth where it has grown, 
Some cubit-space, and say, " Behold, 
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, 
Forgetting how the days go on." 

What harm would that do ? Green anon 
The sward would quicken, overshone 
By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
Have leave to chirp there day and night, 
While my new rest went on, went on. 

From gracious Nature have I won 
Such liberal bounty? May I run 
So, lizard-like, within her side, 
And there be safe, who now am tried 
By days that painfully go on? 

— A Voice reproves me thereupon, 

More sweet than Nature's, when the drone 

Of bees is sweetest, and more deep 



346 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Than when the rivers overleap 

The shuddering pines, and thunder on. 

God's Voice, not Nature's — night and noon 
He sits upon the great white throne 
And listens for the creature's praise. 
What babble we of days and days? 
The Dayspring He, whose days go on. 

He reigns above, He reigns alone; 
Systems burn out and leave His throne; 
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
Around Him, changeless amid all : 
Ancient of Days, whose days go on ! 

He reigns below, He reigns alone, — 
And having life in love foregone 
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, 
He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns 
Or rules with Him, while days go on? 

By anguish which made pale the sun, 
I hear Him charge his saints that none 
Among the creatures anywhere, 
Blaspheme against Him with despair, 
However darkly days go on. 

— Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! 
No mortal grief deserves that crown. 

supreme Love, chief misery, 
The sharp regalia are for Thee 
Whose days eternally go on ! 

For us. . . .whatever 's undergone, 
Thou knowest, wiliest what is done. 
Grief may be joy misunderstood; 
Only the Good discerns the good. 

1 trust Thee while my days go on. 

Whatever 's lost, it first was won; 

We will not struggle nor impugn. 

Perhaps the cup was broken here 

That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. 

I praise Thee while my days go on ! 

I praise Thee while my days go on; 

I love Thee while my days go on ! 

Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, 

With emptied arms and treasure lost, 

I thank Thee while my days go on ! 



THE BETTER LIFE. 347 

And having in thy life-depth thrown 
Being and suffering (which are one), 
As a child drops some pebble small 
Down some deep well and hears it fall, 
Smiling,. . . .so I ! Thy days go on. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



destitution: 

Is Nature weak ? Do her enchantments fail ? 
Almighty is the word. Let God prevail. 
Art thou impatient of thy time's disaster ? 

And dost thou dread a failing land's distress ? 
And are thy hopes that blazed, dissolving faster 

Than fire-swept grasses in the wilderness ? 

Say, hath thy Reason like a thief waylaid thee, 
And in Faith's robbery left thee poor indeed? 

Say, hath thy heart, a treacherous wife, betrayed thee ? 
Say, do thy murdered hopes, thy children, bleed ? 

And are they dying — aye, and dead, and cast 

To the deep vaults ? Say, dost thou glower aghast 

At ruin, ruin, ruin, thrice deserted, 

Friends lost, faith lost, and all that faith supplies, 
While hope turns from thee, and with eyes averted 

Thy better genius warns but once, and flies ? 
Say, art thou but a corpse beneath the skin, 
"While to their ashes burn the fires within ? 

Thou, brother, thou, a lightning-splintered globe, 

A thunder-scarred, fire-devastated isle, 
Whom death and hate would momently disrobe, 

A kindred genius, with mild, asking smile, 
For thee would summon kinsmen far away 
In the Sun's ruby chamber. " Lo ! " they say, 

" Hear what the Word, with voice apocalyptic, 

Reveals in power omnipotently sweet ; 

Gather the hopes that star its vast ecliptic ; 

With Nature haste to her dear Master's feet. 
Art thou a Winter? thou a Spring shalt bloom, 
And smile an Eden, thou who wert a tomb." 

Anonymous. 



348 GOLDEN POEMS. 

^BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN." 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 

The Power who pities man has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night ; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 

And thou who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE MASTERS TOUCH. 

1st the still air the music lies unheard ; 

In the rough marble beauty hides unseen : 
To make the music and the beauty, needs 

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. 

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand ; 

Let not the music that is in us die ! 
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor let, 

Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie ! 

Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt ! 

Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred ; 
Complete thy purpose, that we may become 

Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord ! 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 319 

"I HOLD STILL." 

Patn's furnace-heat within me quivers, 
God's breath upon the flame doth blow, 

And all my heart within me shivers 
And trembles at the fiery glow; 

And yet I whisper — "As God will!" 

And in the hottest fire, hold still. 

He comes and lays my heart, all heated, 

On the hard anvil, minded so 
Into His own fair shape to beat it, 

With His own hammer, blow on blow; 
And yet I whisper — " As God will! " 
And at His heaviest blows, hold still. 

He takes my softened heart, and beats it — ■ 

The sparks fly off at every blow: 
He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, 

And lets it cool, and makes it glow; • 

And yet I whisper — " As God will! " 
And in the mighty hand, hold still. 

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow 

Thus only longer lived would be; 
Its end may come, and will, to-m >rrow, 

When God has done His work in me. 
So I say, trusting — "As God will!" 
And trusting to the end, hold still. 

He kindles for my profit purely 

Affliction's glowing, fiery brand, 
And all His heaviest blows are surely 

Inflicted by a Master's hand; 
So I say, praying, " As God will! ' 
And hope in Him and suffer still. 

{From the German.) 



GETHSEMANE. 

In golden youth, w T hen seems the earth 
A summer land of singing mirth, 
When souls are glad and hearts are light, 
And not a shadow lurks in sight, 
We do not know it, but there lies 



350 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Veiled somewhere under evening skies 
A garden which we all must see — 
The garden of Gethsemane. 

"With joyous steps we go our ways, 
Love lends a halo to our days; 
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar; 
"We laugh, and say how strong we are. 
"We hurry on; and hurrying, go 
Close to the border-land of woe 
That waits for you and waits for me — 
Forever waits Gethsemane. 

Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams 
Bridged over by our broken dreams, 
Behind the misty capes of years, 
Beyond the great salt fount of tears, 
The garden lies. Strive as you may, 
You cannot miss it in your way. 
All paths that have been or shall be 
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane. 

All those who journey soon or late 
Must pass within the garden's gate; 
Must kneel alone in darkness there, 
And battle with some fierce despair. 
God pity those who cannot say, 
"Not mine but thine;" who only pray, 
" Let this cup pass," and cannot see 
The purpose in Gethsemane. 

Ella Wheeler. 



SAT NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAIL- 

ETH. 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
The labor and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the flyers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 351 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly! 
But westward, look! the land is bright. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



MY LEGACY. 

They told me I was heir ; I turned in haste, 

And ran to seek my treasure, 
And wondered, as I ran, how it was placed, — 

If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within my hands. 

I journeyed many roads; I knocked at gates; 

I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, "A heritage awaits 

Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news? some message sent to me whereby 
I learn which way my new possessions lie?" 

Some asked me in; naught lay beyond their door; 

Some smiled, and would not tarry, 
But said that men were just behind who bore 

More gold than I could carry; 
And so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent, 
While empty-handed up and down I went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could not see, 

As through the mists he hasted: 
"Poor child! what evil ones have hindered thee 

Till this whole day is wasted? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits the goods to share ?" 

The one named Christ I sought for many days, 

In many places vainly ; 
I heard men name his name in many ways ; 

I saw his temples plainly ; 
But they who named him most gave me no sign 
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his face, 
I knew him by no token 



352 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Save subtle air of joy which filled the place ; 

Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my share, 
Kneeling before my brother and " joint heir." 

My share ! No deed of house or spreading lands, 

"As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold : my elder brother's hands 

Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed : 
My brother had not where to lay his head. 

My share ! The right like him to know all pain 

Which hearts are made for knowing ; 
The right to find in loss the surest gain ; 

To reap my joy from sowing 
In bitter tears ; the right with him to keep 
A watch by day and night with all who weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief "and death ; 

I see the joy and life to-morrow ; 
I thank my Father with my every breath, 

For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each "joint heir" 
With Christ: " Make haste to ask him for thy share." 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 



BRINGING OUR SHEAVES. 

The time for toil is past, and night has come, 

The last and saddest of the harvest eves ; 
Worn out with labor long and wearisome, 
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, 
Each laden with his sheaves. 

Last of the laborers, Thy feet I gain, 

Lord of the harvest ! and my spirit grieves 

That I am burdened not so much with grain 

As with a heaviness of heart and brain ; 
"Master, behold my sheaves!" 

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, 

Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; 

Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet 

I kneel down reverently and repeat : 
" Master, behold my sheaves ! " 



THE BETTER LIFE. 353 

Few, light, and worthless ; yet their trifling weight 

Through all my frame a weary aching leaves ; 
For long I struggled with my helpless fate, 
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late, 
Yet these are all my sheaves. 

And yet I gather strength and hope anew; 

For well I know thy patient love perceives 
Not what I did, but what I strove to do ; 
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few, 

Thou wilt accept my sheaves. 

^Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Percy). 



"FOLLOW ME." 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, 
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's 

head ; 
And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some 

pain, 
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguished tear is 

shed. 

For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, 
And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved 

a sigh ; 
For without the dreary winter there has never been a year, 
And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer 

sky. 

So this dreamy life is passing — and we move amidst its maze, 
And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light ; 
And our hearts are often burdened with the mysteries of our 

ways, 
Which are never all in shadow, and are never wholly bright. 

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide, 
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and 

the key ; 
And a cross gleams o'er our pathway, on it hangs the Crucified, 
And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, "Follow 

Me." 

Abram T. Ryan {A Thought). 

23 



354 GOLDEN POEMS. 

HOPE, FAITH, LOVE. 

There are three lessons I would write — 
Three words as with a burning pen, 

In tracings of eternal light 
Upon the hearts of men. 

Have hope. Though clouds environ now, 
And gladness hides her face in scorn, 

Put thou the shadow from thy brow — 
No night but hath its morn. 

Have faith. "Where'er thy bark is driven, 
The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth, 

Know this — God rules the host of heaven, 
The inhabitants of earth. 

Have love. Not love alone for one, 
But man, as man, thy brothers call; 

And scatter, like the circling sun, 
Thy charities on all. 

Thus grave these lessons on thy soul — 

Hope, Faith, and Love — and thou shalt find 

Strength when life's surges rudest roll, 
Light when thou else wert blind. 

{From the German of Schiller.) 



TAKE HEART 

All day the stormy wind has blown 
From off the dark and rainy sea ; 

No bird has past the window flown, 

The only song has been the moan 
The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time : 

She died when dropped the earliest leaves ; 
And, cold upon her rosy prime, 
Fell down the autumn's frosty rime ; 

Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 

For well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies ; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 355 

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 
Beside some golden summer's bier, — 

Take heart ! Thy birds are only flown, 

Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, 
To greet thee in the immortal year ! 

Edna Dean Proctor. 



row we learn: 

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, 
Such as men give and take from day to day, 

Comes in the common walks of easy life, 
Blown by the careless wind across our way. 

Bought in the market, at the current price, 

Bred of the smile, the jest, perchance the bowl, 

It tells no tale of daring or of worth, 
Nor pierces even the surface of a soul. 

Great truths are greatly won. Not found by chance, 
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream, 

But grasped in the great struggle of the soul, 
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. 

Not in the general mart, 'mid corn and wine, 
Not in the merchandise of gold and gems, 

Not in the world's gay halls of midnight mirth, 
Not 'mid the blaze of regal diadems, 

But in the day of conflict, fear, and grief. 

When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, 

Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart, 

And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light. 

"Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours 
Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, 

Truth springs, like harvest, from the well-plowed field, 
And the soul feels it has not wept in vain. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



REAPER OF LIFE'S HARVEST. * 

Ho, reapers of life's harvest! 
Why stand with rusted blade 

* Favorite Hymn of President Garfield. 



356 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Until the night draws round the© 
And the day begins to fade ? 

Why stand ye idle, waiting 
For reapers more to come ? 

The golden morn is passing, 
Why sit ye silent, dumb ? 

Thrust in your sharpened sickle 
And gather in the grain: 

The night is fast approaching, 
And noon wi)l come again. 

The Master calls for reapers, 
And shall He call in vain ? 

Shall sheaves lie there ungathered, 
And waste upon the plain ? 

Mount up the heights of wisdom, 
And crush each error low ; 

Keep back no words of knowledge 
That human hearts should know. 

Be faithful to thy mission 
In service of thy Lord, 

And then a golden chaplet 
Shall be thy just reward. 



Anonymous. 



MEMORIAL HYMN.— J. A. GABFIELD. 

Now all ye flowers make room; 
Hither we come in gloom 
To make a mighty tomb, 

Sighing and weeping. 
Grand was the life he led; 
Wise was each word he said; 
But with the noble dead 

We leave him sleeping. 

Soft may his body rest 
As on his mother's breast, 
Whose love stands all confessed 

'Mid blinding tears; 
But may his soul so white 
Rise in triumphant flight, 
And in God's land of light 

Spend endless years. 

David Swing. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 357 

RIPE GRAIN. 

O still, white face of perfect peace, 

Untouched by passion, freed from pain, — 

He who ordained that work should cease 
Took to Himself the ripened grain. 

O noble face ! your beauty bears 

The glory that is wrung from pain, — 

The high, celestial beauty wears 
Of finished work, of ripened grain. 

Of human care you left no trace, 

No lightest trace of grief or pain, — 

On earth an empty form and face — 
In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 

Dora Read Goodale. 



ALL IS WELL. 

Avd all is well, though faith and form 
Be sundered in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm. 



Oh, vet we trust that somehow good 

Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 

That not one life shall be destroyed, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 

Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 
Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold ! we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 

At last — far off" — at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 

Alfred Tennyson {In Memoriam). 



35S GOLDEN POEMS. 

PARTED FRIENDS. 

Friend after friend departs ; 

Who hath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts 

That finds not here an end ! 
Were this frail world our final rest, 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time — 

Beyond the reign of death — 
There surely is some blessed clime 

Where life is not a breath ; 
Nor life's affections transient fire, 
Whose sparks fly upward and expire ! 

There is a world above 

Where parting is unknown ! 
A long eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here 
Translated to that glorious sphere ! 

Thus star by star declines 

Till all are passed away ; 
As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light. 

James Montgomery. 



PEACE. 

Peace, troubled heart ! the way 's not long before thee, 
Lay down thy burden ; say to sorrow, cease ; 

Be yon soft azure hand serenely o'er thee, 

The blue, bright border to God's sphere of peace. 

Peace, troubled heart ! the hasty word may fret thee, 
The cruel word may coldly probe and pierce ; 

The Christ who suffered, loves thee, never leaves thee, 
He pours His balm upon the fever fierce. 

Peace, troubled heart ! though marred thy best behavior, 

To thy deep longing, thine aspiring cry, 
Listens thy Heavenly Kinsman, thy dear Savior 

Healeth thy life-hurt, vvipeth thy tears dry. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 359 

Peace, lonely heart ! Be patient. Thou 'It see, waiting, 
How perfect sympathy and love may meet ; 

Be patient, praying ; all earth's discord grating, 
Will melt at last to love divine, complete. 

Peace, troubled heart ! O coward, weakly shrinking 
Back from the chalice ! Saints aud martyrs' meed, 

The chrism of suffering. Earthward, poor souls sinking, 
Yearn for the heavenly joy, through human need. 

Peace, troubled heart ! see yon strong ships all sailing 
Through sun and storm, on to the solemn sea ; 

Through summer calms, through wintry tempest quailing, 
Thus sailest thou, out to Infinity. 

Peace, troubled heart ! beyond these bitter breezes, 

Mid Isles of Paradise, in airs of balm, 
Where cruel wind or word ne'er wounds or freezes, 

Thou 'It gain at last the everlasting calm. 

Peace, troubled heart ! go out beneath the ether ; 

Rest in the marvelous sunshine of the sky ; 
Watch the bees sail and sing in sunny leisure ; 

List the waves laughing as they loiter by. 

Peace, troubled heart ! if minor notes of sadness 
Tremble through Nature's voices, every sigh 

Quickens the anthem of her mightier gladness, 
Foretells fruition perfect by and by. 

Peace, troubled heart ! life's ever mocking seeming, 
Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss, 

Are fitful phantoms of its transient dreaming, 

While Faith stands steadfast gazing on the Cross. 

Mary Clemmer Ames. 



I SHALL BE SATISFIED. 

Not here ! not here ! not where the sparkling waters 
Fade into mocking sands as we draw near ; 

Where in the wilderness each footstep falters — ■ 
I shall be satisfied — but oh ! not here. 

Not here ! where every dream of bliss deceives us, 
Where the worn spirit never gains its goal ; 

Where, haunted ever by the thoughts that grieve us, 
Across us floods of bitter memory roll. 



360 GOLDEN POEMS. 

There is a land where every pulse is thrilling 
With rapture earth's sojourners may not know, 

Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling, 
And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. 

Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us, 
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, 

And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us 
Tnan these few words — " I shall be satisfied." 

Satisfied ! satisfied ! the spirit's yearning 

For sweet companionship with kindred minds — 

Tne silent love that here meets no returning — 
The inspiration which no language finds — 

Shall they be satisfied ? the soul's vague longing — 
The aching void which nothing earthly fills? 

Oh, what desires upon my soul are thronging, 
As 1 look upward to the heavenly hills! 

Thither my weak and weary steps are tending — 

Savior and Lord ! with thy frail child abide ! 
Guide me towards home, where, all my wanderings ending, 



I then shall see Thee, and " be satisfied. 



Anonymous. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 

This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — 

There 's nothing true but heaven ! 

And false the light on glory's plume, 

As fading hues of even ; 
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — • 

There 's nothing bright but heaven ! 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we 're driven, 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way, — ■ 
There 's nothing calm but heaven ! 

Thomas Moors. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 361 



"J TOO." 



" Let us spread the sail for purple islands, 

Far in undiscovered tropic seas; 
Let us track the glimmering arctic highlands 

Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees 
E'er has lived." So speak the elders, telling 

By the hearth, their list of fancies through, 
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling, 

Till he cries at last, " I too! I too! " 

And 7", too, O my Father! Thou hast made me — 

I have life, and life must have its way; 
Why should love and gladness be gainsaid me? 

Why should shadows cloud my little day? 
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even — 

Souls of kings are worth no more than mine; 
Why are gifts e'er to my brother given, 

While my heart and I together pine? 

Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking, 

Fullest joys: the one-day's butterfly 
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking, 

Has the whole of life ere it doth die. 
Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying; 

With thy full contentment thou dost coo; 
Yet, must man cry for a dove's life, saying, 

"Make me as a dove — I too! I too! " 

Nay, for something moves within — a spirit 

Rises in his breast, he feels it stir; 
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit 

Should be his to feel; yet, why defer 
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow 

All his longings for a present bliss? 
Stones of faith are hard; oh could he borrow, 

From that world's great stores one taste for this! 

Hungry stands he by his empty table, 

Thirsty waits beside his empty well — 
Nor with all his striving, is he able 

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell 
In his neighbor's bosom; see, he sifteth 

Once again his poor life through and through — 
Finds but ashes: is it strange he lifteth 

Up his cry, " O Lord! I too! I too! " 

Constance Fenimore Woolson. 



362 GOLDEN POEMS. 

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES. 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies, 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam; 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God ! from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to thee ! 
No sin to cloud, — no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs ;— 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 

Thomas Moore. 



ALL BEFORE. 

O hearts that never cease to yearn ! 

O brimming tears that ne'er are dried ! 
The dead, though they depart, return 

As though they had not died ! 

The living are the only dead ; 

The dead live — nevermore to die ! 
And often when we mourn them fled, 

They never were so nigh ! 

And though they lie beneath the waves, 
Or sleep within the churchyard dim — 

(Ah ! through how many different graves 
God's children go to him !) — ■ 

Yet every grave gives up its dead 
Ere it is overgrown with grass ; 

Then why should hopeless tears be shed, 
Or need we cry, "Alas "? 

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, 
And like a sorrowing mourner craped, 

Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, 
Whose captives have escaped? 



THE BETTER LIFE. 363 

'T is but a mound, and will be mossed 
Whene'er the summer grass appears ; 

The loved, though wept, are never lost ; 
We only lose — our tears ! 

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead 

By bending forward where they are ; 
But Memory, with a backward tread, 

Communes with them afar. 

The joys we lose are but forecast, 

And we shall find them all once mo e ; 

W r e look behind us for the Past, 
Butlo! 'tis all before! 

Anonymous. 



UP-HILL. 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 

YeSy to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting place? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? 

They will not keep you standing at that do jr. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 

Chkistina G. Rossetti. 



WHEN". 

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, 

That the next sun 
Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow 

For any one, 



364 GOLDEN POEMS. 

All the fight fought, all the short journey through, 
What should I do ? 

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, 

But just go on, 
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 

Aught that is gone ; 
But rise and move and love and smile and pray 

For one more day. 

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 

Say in that ear 
Which harkens ever : " Lord, within thy keeping 

How should I fear ? 
And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, 

Do thou thy will." 

I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, 

My soul would lie 
All the night long ; and when the morning splendor 

Flushed o'er the sky, 
I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 
"It is His day." 

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 

Held out a scroll 
On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 

Beheld unroll 
To a long century's end its mystic clue, 

What should I do ? 

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, 

Other than this : 
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 

Nor fear to miss 
The road, although so very long it be, 

While led by Thee? 

Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, 

Although unseen, 
Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide thee, 

Or heavens serene, 
Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, 

Thy love decay. 

I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth 

Thy counsels wise; 
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, 

No voice replies 



THE BETTER LIFE. 365 

To all my questioning thought, the time to tell ; 
And it is well. 

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing 

Thy will always, 
Through a long century's ripening fruition 

Or a short day's ; 
Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait 

If thou come late. 

Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge). 



0, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE. 

O may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence; live 

In pulses stirred to generosity, 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 

Of miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 

And with their mild persistence urge men's minds 

To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven: 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing a beauteous order, that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we stru^o-led, failed, and agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies, 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song, 
That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be, 
And what may yet be better, — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the multitude, 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with love,— 



366 GOLDEN POEMS. 

That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. 

May I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more, intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible, 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 



LIFE. 

Life ! T know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 
But this I know: when thou art fled, 
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
O, whither, whither dost thou fly? 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course? 
And, in this strange divorce, 
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, I ? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 

From whence thy essence came, 

Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 

From matter's base encumbering weed ? 

Or dost thou, hid from sight, 

Wait, like some spell-bound knight, 

Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassurae thy power ? 

Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be ? 

O, say, what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 



THE BETTER LIFE. 367 

Life ! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, — 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Nio;ht, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid me Good Morning. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld. 



A RHYME OF LIFE. 

If life be as a flame that death doth kill, 
Burn, little candle, lit for me, 
With a pure flame, that I may rightly see 
To word my song, and utterly 
God's plan fulfil. 

If life be as a flower that blooms and dies, 
Forbid the cunning frost that slays 
With Judas kiss, and trusting love betrays ; 
Forever may my song of praise 
Untainted rise. 

If life be as a voyage, foul or fair, 
Oh, bid me not my banners furl 
For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl, 
Till I have found the gates of pearl, 
And anchored there. 

Charles Warren Stoddard. 



NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 

Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past."— Russian Proverb. 
" Two hands upon the breast, 
And labor's done; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 

The race is won ; 
Two eyes with coin- weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute, 
Anger at pence : " 



>6S GOLDEN POEMS. 



So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
God in his kindness answereth not. 

"Two hands to work addrest 
Aye for his praise ; 
Two feet that never rest 

Walking his ways ; 
Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears ; 
Two lips still breathing love, 
Not wrath, nor fears: " 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



BEST. 

I lay me down to sleep, 

With little care 
Whether my waking find 

Me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head 

That only asks to rest, 
Unquestioning, upon 

A loving breast. 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now ; 
To march the weary march 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, 

Nor strong, — all that is past ; 
I am read}'- not to do, 

At last, at last. 

My half- day's work is done, 

And this is all mj 7 part, — 
I give a patient God 

My patient heart ; 

And grasp his banner still, 

Though all the blue be dim ; 
These stripes as well as stars 

Lead after him. 

Mary Woolsey Howl and. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 369 

BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEP- 
ING. 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the" blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the shining and the shading, 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the gathering and the strowing 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
Beyond the coming and the going, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the parting and the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the frost chain and the fever 

I shall r be soon ; 
Beyond the rock waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

24 HORATIUS BoNAR. 



370 GOLDEN POEMS. 



THE SILENT LAND. 

Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark — 

Down into the fading west ; 
And the long low amber reaches lying on the horizon's mark 
Shape themselves into the gateways opening to the Land 
of Rest — 
Gateways leading thro' the sunset, out into the under world, 
Bright with pilgrim barges lying round the Islands of the 
Blest, 

With their white sails tranquil furled. 

Pale sea-buds that weep forever, water-lilies damp and cool 

That the heavenly shores adorn, 
And the mystic lotus shining thro' the white waves beautiful, 
Far a peace-emitting fragrance shed through all that 
tranquil bourne ; 
Lio-ht the valleys undisquieted with step of mortal trea'l — 
Bind the white brows of the Living whom all comfortless 
we mourn, 

Whom we blindly call the Dead. 

O ye lost ones ! ye departed ! do ye heed the tears we shed? 

Speak, and bid our sorrows cease ! 
O beloved ! O Immortals ! O ye dead who are not dead ! 

Are ye near us in our anguish, in our longing for release? 
S Kiak to us across the darkness, — wave to us a glimmering 
hand ! 
Tell us but that ye remember, and our souls shall wait in 
peace — 

Dwellers in the Silent Land ! 

Kate Seymour McLean. 



HEAVEN. 

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, 

Beyond death's cloudy portal, 
There is a land where beauty never dies — 
1 Where love becomes immortal. 

r 

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, 

Whose fields are ever vernal ; 
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, 

But blooms for aye eternal. 

Wo may not know how sweet its balmy air, 
How bright and fair its flowers ; 



THE BETTER LIEE. 371 

We may not hear the songs that echo there 
Through those enchanted bowers. 

The city's shining towers we may not see 

With our dim earthly vision, 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes the gates elysian. 

But sometimes, when adown the western sky 

A fiery sunset lingers, 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen fingers. 

And while they stand a moment half ajar, 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal the story. 

O land unknown ! O land of love divine ! 

Father, all-wise, eternal, 
Oh, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine 

Into those pastures vernal ! 

Nancy Priest Wakefield. 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying; 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper; angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death? 

The world recedes; it disappears; 
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring: 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
O grave ! where is thy victory? 

O death ! where is thy sting? 

Alexander Pope. 



372 GOLDEN POEMS. 

DYING HYMR. 

Eakth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 
Recedes and fades away ; 

Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 
Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song, — 
My blindness is my sight ; 

The shadows that I feared so long 
Are full of life and light. 

The while my pulses fainter beat, 
My faith doth so abound, 

I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green, immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives 

Low as the grave to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives — 

That I shall live I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 

Where dwells my Lord and King ! 

O grave, where is thy victory ? 
O death, where is thy sting ? 



Alice Cary. 



HEREAFTER. 

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid 

to rest, 
When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to 

breast, 
When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses 

o'er us, 
And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps 

pressed — 

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the 

earth, 
Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous 

mirth; . 
Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer 

showers, 
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn 

hearth. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 373 

That's our love. But you and I, dear — shall we linger with 

it yet, 
Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden 

net — 
On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the 

blossom, 
Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some 

hill is wet ? 

Or, beloved — if ascending — when we have endowed the 

world 
With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be 

whirled, 
Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful, 

holy places, 
With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled ? 

Only this our yearning answers: wheresoe'er that way defile, 
Not a film shall part us through the aeons of that mighty 

while, 
In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, 
Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great 

smile. 

Harriet Prescott Spofford. 



IMMORTALITY. 

Oh I listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word : 
" Man, thou shalt never die I " Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps, 
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
Oh ! listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air. 'T is in the gentle moonlight; 
'T is floating 'mid Day's setting glories; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe , with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 



374 GOLDEN POEMS. 

By an unseen living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Richard Henry Dana, 
{The Husband's and Wife's Grave.) 



THE IMMORTAL PART. 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

Joseph Addison (Cato). 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 

Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — • 

Turn wheresoe'er I may, 

By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look around her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 375 

To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
- And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shep- 
herd-boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fullness of your bliss — I feel, I feel it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning, 
And the children are culling, 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon — 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetful n ess, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 



376 GOLDEN POEMS. 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ! 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part: 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage, 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 377 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read 'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — ■ 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave: 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live; 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 



378 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence ! truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man, nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight, 
Thouo*h nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which, having been, must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
Think not of any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
I only have relinquished one delight 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks which down their channels fret 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet ^ 



THE BETTER LIFE. 379 

The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth. 



SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN 

Flowers that have died upon my Sweet, 
Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat 

Of her young bosom under you — 
Now will 1 show you such a thing 
As never through thick buds of Spring, 

Betwixt the daylignt and the dew, 
The Bird whose being no man knows — 

The voice that waketh all night through, 
Tells to the Rose. 

For lo — a garden place I found, 

"Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, 

Well flowered, with red fruit marvelous; 
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 

With faces bent and amorous; — 
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 

With woodbine and amaracus, 
My Love I found. 

Alone she walked; — ah, well I wis, 
My heart leapt up for joy of this ! 

Then when I called to her her name — ■' 
The name, that like a pleasant thing 
Men's lips remember, murmuring — ■ 

At once across the sward she came; 
Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, 

And asked ever as she came, 

"Where hast thou stayed?" 

" Where hast thou staved?" she asked, as though 
Th^ long years were an hour ago; 
Bat I spake not, nor answered, 



380 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For, looking in her eyes, I saw 
A light not lit of mortal law; 

And in her clear cheek's changeless red, 
And sweet unshaken speaking, found 

That in this place the Hours were dead, 
And Time was bound. 

" This is well done," she said, " in thee, 
O Love, that thou art come to me, 

To this green garden glorious; 
Now truly shall our life be sped 
In joyance and all goodlihed, 

For here all things are fair to us, 
And none with burden is oppressed, 
And none is poor or piteous, 
For here is Rest. 

"No formless Future blurs the sky; 
Men mourn not here with dull, dead eye, 

By shrouded shapes of Yesterday; 
Betwixt the Coming and the Past 
The flawless life hangs fixen fast 

In one unwearying To-Day, 
That darkens not; for Sin is shriven, 
Death from the doors is thrust away, 
And here is Heaven." 

At "Heaven" she ceased; and lifted up 
Her fair head like a flower-cup, 

With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow; 
Then set I lips to hers, and felt — 
Ah, God ! — the hard pain fade and melt, 

And past things change to painted show; 
The song of quiring birds outbroke; 

The lit leaves laughed — sky shook, and lo, 
I swooned — and woke. 

And now, O Flowers — 

Ye that indeed are dead-^ 
Now for all waiting hours, 

Well am I comforted; 
For of a surety, now, I see, 

That without dim distress 

Of tears, or weariness, 
My Lady verily awaiteth me; 
So that until with Her I be, 

For my dear Lady's sake 



THE BETTER LIFE. 381 



I am right fain to make 
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 
Grief for a golden garment unto me; 

Knowing that I at last shall stand 
In that green garden-land, 
And in the holding of my dear Love's hand, 
Forget the grieving and the misery. 

Austin Dobson. 



THE DISCOVERER. 

I have a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all the peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer, 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
Aye, he has traveled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly in his fair young hour, 
Came one who bore a flower 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 

With this command : 
" Henceforth thou art a rover ! 
Thou must make a voyage far, 
Sail beneath the evening star, 
And a wondrous land discover." 
— With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 
How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward-bound ! 
Would that he might return ! 
Then should we learn 



382 . GOLDEN POEMS. 

From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways .part. 
Hush ! does not the baby this way bring, 
To lay beside this severed curl, 

Some starry offering 

Of chrysolite or pearl? 

Ah, no ! not so ! 
We may follow on his track, 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years; 
More than in the groves is taught 
Or from furthest Indies brought; 
He knows, perchance, how spirits fare — 
What shapes the angels wear, 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach — 

And his eyes behold 
Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



THERE IS JSTO DEATH. 

There is no death ! The stars go down 

To rise upon some fairer shore, 
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown 

They shine forevermore. 

There is no death. The dust we tread 

Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or mellow fruit 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. 

The granite rocks disorganize 

To feed the hungry moss they bear; 

The forest leaves drink daily life 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death; the leaves may fall, 
The flowers may fade and pass away— 

They only wait through wintry hours 
The coming of the May. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 383 

There Is no death ! An angel form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; 

He bears our best loved things away, 
And then we call them "dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate — 

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones 
Made glad this scene of sin and strife, 

Sings now in everlasting song, 
Amid the tree of life. 

And where he sees a smile so bright, 
Of hearts too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light, 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born into that undying life, 

They leave us but to come again; 
With joy we welcome them — the same 

Except in sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen, 

The dear immortal spirits tread; 
For all the boundless Universe 

Is life — there are no dead. 



Anonymous. 



JSTO MORE SEA. 

There shall be no more sea ; no wild winds bringing 
Their stormy tidings to the rocky strand, 

With its scant grasses, and pale sea-flowers springing 
From out the barren sand. 

No angry wave, from cliff and cavern hoary, 
To hearts that tremble at its mournful lore ; 

Bearing on shattered sail and spar the story 
Of one who comes no more ; 

The loved and lost, whose steps no more may wander 
Where wild gorse sheds its blooms of living gold, 

Nor slake his thirst where mountain rills meander 
Along the heathy wold. 



384 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Never again through flowery dingles wending 
In the hushed stillness of the sacred morn, 

By shady woodpaths where tall poppies, bending, 
Redden the ripening corn. 

Neath whispering leaves his rosy children gather, 
In the gray hamlet's simple place of graves, 

Round the low tomb where sleeps his white-haired father, 
Far from the noise of waves. 

There shall be no more sea ! No surges sweeping 
O'er love and youth, and childhood's sunny hair ; 

Naught of decay and change, nor voice of weeping, 
Ruffle the fragrant air 

Of that fair land within whose pearly portal 
The golden light falls soft on fount and tree ; 

Vcx°d by no tempest, stretch those shores immortal, 
Where there is no more sea. 

Anonymous. 



THE OTHER WORLD. 

It lies around us like a cloud — 

A world we do not see; 
Yet the sweet closing of an eye 

May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; 

Amid our worldly cares 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between 
With breathings almost heard. 

The silence — awful, sweet, and calm— 
They have no power to break; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
So near to press they seem, — 

They seem to lull us to our rest, 
And melt into our dream. 



TIJE BETTER LIFE. 385 



And in the hush of rest they bring 

'T is easy now to see 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be! 

To close the eye and close the ear, 

Rapt in a trance of bliss, 
And gently dream in loving arms 

To swoon to that — from this. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 

Scarce asking where we are, 
To feel all evil sink away, 

All sorrow and all care. 

Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 

Press nearer to our side, 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 

With gentle helpings glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 

A dried and vanished stream ; 
Your joy be the reality, 

Our suffering life the dream. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



TWO WORLDS. 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, 
Whose magic joys we shall not see again; 

Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore. 
Ah, truly breathed we there 
Intoxicating air — 
Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of 
Nevermore. 

The lover there drank her delicious breath 
Whose love has yielded since to change or death; 

The mother kissed her child, whose days are o 1 er. 
Alas ! too soon have fled 
The irreclaimable dead: 
We see them — visions strange — amid the 
Nevermore. 

The merrysome maiden that used there to sing — 
The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling 

25 



386 GOLDEN POEMS. 

To temples long clay-cold : to the very core 

They strike our weary hearts, 

As some vexed memory starts 
From that long faded land — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

It is perpetual summer there. Bat here 
Sadly may we remember rivers clear, 

And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. 
For brighter bells and bluer, 
For tenderer hearts and truer 
People that happy land — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land 
We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand : 

What realm lies forward, with its happier store 
Of forests green and deep, 
Of valleys hushed in sleep, 
And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the land of 
Evermore. 

Very far off its marble cities seem — 
Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — 

Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar; 
Yet does the turbulent surge 
Howl on its very verge. 
One moment — and we breathe within the 
Evermore. 

They whom we loved and lost so long ago 
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo — 

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings 
soar. 
Eternal peace have they; 
God wipes their tears away; 
They drink that river of life which flows from 
Evermore. 

Thither we hasten through these regions dim, 
But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim 

Shine in the sunset ! On that joyous shore 
Our lightened hearts shall know 
The life of long ago : 
The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for 
Evermore. 

Mortimer Cot.lixs. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 387 

SPIRITUAL COMMUNION'S. 

How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm and fair, 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 

They can but listen at the gates, 
And hear the household jar within. 

Alfred Tennyson (In Memoriam). 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 

The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 

And perishes among the dust we tread ? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given; 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past, 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 



388 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 
Shall it expire with life and be no more ? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 

Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell 

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 

The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — ■ 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? 

William Cullen Bryant. 



OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me — 

Loved ones who 've passed to the further side; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. ' 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see — 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river the boatman pale 
Carried another, the household'pet; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 

We felt it glide from the silver sands, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 389 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; 
We know she is safe on the further side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be — 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye; 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea, 
Y^t, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

1 shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy Pkiest Wakefield. 



ONLY WAITING, 

A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now. II ( 
replied, "Only waiting." 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the heart once full of day; 
Till the dawn of heaven is breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home; 



390 GOLDEN POEMS. 

For the summer-time is faded, 

And the autumn winds have come. 

Quickly, reapers, gather quickly 
The last ripe hours of my heart, 

For the bloom of life is withered, 
And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate. 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me, I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown; 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Then from out the gathered darkness, 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise, 
By whose light my soul shall gladly 

Tread its pathway to the skies. 

Frances Laughton Mace. 



I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 

I would not live alway : I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory's mine ere I'm captive again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway: no, welcome the tomb; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 391 

There, too, is the pillow where Christ bowed his head — 

O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! 

And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, 

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, 

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise, 

To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. 

Who, who would live alway, away from his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, 
Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
Their Savior and brethren transported to greet, 
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 

The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. 

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, 

The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 

O give me, O give me the wings of a dove ! 

Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. 

Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, 

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 



NEARER HOME. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er : 

I 'm nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house, 

Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer graining; the crown ! 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 



392 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm: 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink — ■ 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think, — 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Let my spirit feel, in death, 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the Rock of a living faith ! 



Phcebe Cart. 



LONGING FOB HOME. 

A Song of a Boat. 

There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, 

And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till, a dancing mote, 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea ; 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah, me! 

" A Song op a Nest. 
There was once a nest in a hollow, 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 393 

Soft and warm and full to the brim ; 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim ; 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own — „ 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them ; but when they were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day; 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah, me ! 
Jean Ingelow (Songs of Seven). 



MIJSTISTJRY OF ANGELS. 

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
That may compassion of their evils move ? 
There is: — else much more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding 2;race 
Of Highest God ! that loves his creatures so, 



394 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
To come to succour us that succour want ! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 
Against fowle feends to ayd us militant ! 
They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; 
And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such regard! 
Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



JSTEABEB, MY GOB, TO THEE. 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me; 
Still all my song shall be, — 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though, like the wanderer, 

The sun gone down, 
Darkness be over me, . 

My rest a stone; 
Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 

Steps unto heaven; 
All that thou sendest me 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts, 

Bright with thy praise, 
Out of my stony griefs 

Bethel I '11 raise; 



THE BETTER LIFE. 395 

So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 

Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky, 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upward I fly ; 
Still all my song shall be — 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee. 

Sarah Flower Adams. 



THE BETTER WAY. 

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee? 

And didst thou take to heaven a human brow? 
Dost plead with man's voice by the marvelous sea, 

Art thou his kinsman now? 

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough ! 

man, with eyes majestic after death, 
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 

Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and thine, 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin, 

By that high heaven where, sinless, thou dost shine, 
To draw us sinners in, — 

By thy last silence in the judgment-hall, 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, — 

1 pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 
Die ere the guest adored she entertained— 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day, 
Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 

Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, 

Wiio, wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, 
And cannot find their fold. 

And deign, O watcher with the sleepless brow, 
Pathetic in its yearning — deign reply; 



396 GOLDEN POEMS. 



Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I? 

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust, 
Are there no thorns that compass it about? 

Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out? 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay; 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me? 
There is a better way. 

"What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 
And break, unthanked of man, the stubborn clod? 

It is enough, for sacred is the soil, 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing His glory wrong. 

Jean Ingelow {Honors). 



ABIDE WITH ME. 

Abide with me ! fast falls the even-tide ; 
The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide ! 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away ; 
Change and decay in all around I see ; 
O Thou who changest not, abide with me ! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
Bat as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free, 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 

Come, sot in terrors, as the King of Kings, 
But kind and good, with healing in thy wings ; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile; 
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, 



THE BETTER LIFE. 397 

Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee; 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

] need thy presence every passing- hour; 
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me ! 

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless; 
Lis have no weight, and tears no bitterness; 
Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory? 
1 triumph still, if thou abide with me ! 

Hold Thou thy cross before my closing eyes ! 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies ! 
Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows fLe; 
In Life and Death, O Lord, abide with me ! 

Henry Frakcis Lyte. 



THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. 

O thou great Friend to all the sons of men, 
Who once appeared in humblest guise below, 

Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, 

And call thy brethren forth from want and woe, — 

We look to thee ! thy truth is still the Light 

Which guides the nations, groping on their way, 

Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes ; thou art still the Life, thou art the Way 

The holiest know ; Light, Life, the Way of heaven ! 

And they who dearest hope and deepest pray, 

Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast given. 

Theodore Parker. 



THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 

Lead thou me on ! 
Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene,— one step 's enough for me. 



398 GOLDEN POEMS. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 

Shouldst lead me on: 
I loved to choose aud see my path, but now 

Lead thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. 

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still 

Will lead me on ; 
O 'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 

John Henry Newman. 



GOB, 

O Thott Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy — all motion guide ; 

Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight, 
Thou only God ! There is no God beside. 

Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! 

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 

Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone ; 
Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er— 
Being whom we call God — and know no more ! 

In its sublime research, Philosophy 

May measure out the ocean deep — may count 
The sands, or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for Thee 

There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, 

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high, 

Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 
First chaos, then existence. Lord, on Thee 

Eternity had its foundation; all 

Sprang forth from Thee; of light, joy, harmony, 

Sole origin — all life, all beauty, Thine. 
Thy word created all, and doth create ; 

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! glorious, great, 
Light-giving, life -sustaining Potentate 1 



THE BETTER LIFE. 399 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, 

Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath ! 
Thou the beginning- with the end hast bound, 

And beautifully mingled Life and Death ! 
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee ! 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of Heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise ! 

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light, 

A glorious company of golden streams? 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright? 

Suns, lighting systems with their joyous beams? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 

All this magnificence in Thee is lost; 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Ther? 

And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host, 
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 

In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 

Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 

Against infinity ! What am I then? Naught. 

Naught ! but the effluence of Thy light divine, 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too; 
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine, 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! but I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 

Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, 

Even to the Throne of Thy divinity ! 

I am, O God ! and surely Thou must be ! 

Thou art; directing, guiding all, Thou art ! 

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee ! 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; 

Though but an atom 'midst immensity, 
Still I am something fashioned by Thy Hand; 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt Heaven and Earth, 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 



400 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Close to the realm where angels have their birth, 
Just on the boundary of the spirit land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is Spirit — Deity! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust; 
A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a God! 

Whence came I here, and how? So marvelously 
Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod 

Lives surely through some higher energv; 

For from itself alone it could not be. 

Creator ! Yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me. Thou source of life and good; 

Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord; 

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude, 

Filled me with an immortal soul to spring 
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere — 
Even to its source — to Thee, its Author — there. 

O thought ineffable ! O vision blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, 

And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar; 

Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good ! 
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

John Bowkino {From the Russian of Derzhaven). 



THE ETERNAL. 

The One remains, the many change and pass; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky, 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music — words are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 



THE BETTER LIFE. 401 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here 
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near: 
'T is Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
Xo more let Life divide what Death can join together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the universe, 
That beauty in which all things work and move, 
That benediction which the eclipsing curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast, and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven : 
I am borne darkly, fearful ly, afar ; 
While, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abo le where the Eternal are. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (Adonais). 



MUTABILITY. 

When I bethink me on that speech whyleare 
Of Mutability, and well it way, 
Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were 
Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say, 
In all things else she bears the greatest sway; 
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle, 
And love of things so vaine to cast away; 
Whose flo wring pride, so fading and so fickle, 
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle ! 

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd, 
Of that same time when no more change shall be, 
26 



402 GOLDEN POEMS. 

But steadfast rest of all things, firmely stayd 
Upon the pillours of Eternity, 
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie ; , 

For all that moveth doth in change delight, 
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
With him that is the God of Sabaoth hight; 
O thou great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabbath's sight ! 
Edmund Spenser {The Faerie Queene). 



PART XL 



Scattered iLeabeg, 

(403) 



' More Poets yet ! " — I hear him say, 
Arming his heavy hand to slay ; — 

"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow/ 
They seem to sprout ivhere'er I go; — 
I killed a host but yesterday 1 " 



Slash on, Hercules! You may: 
Your task 's at best a Hydra-fray ; 

And though you cut, not less will grow 
More Poets yet! 

Too arrogant! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May ? 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?- 
Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
Who ? There will rise, till Time decay , 
More Poets yet! 



(404) 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 



MUSIC IJST CAMP. 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its high embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver; 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender ; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks ; 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with u Rebels." 

(405) 



406 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Then all was still ; and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause ; and then again 

The trumpet pealed sonorous, 
And "Yankee Doodle " was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang; — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing, 

So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 
The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm, his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked by Music's art, 
Expressed in simplest numbers, 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 407 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart — 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines — 

That bright celestial creature — 
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 

John R. Thompson. 



BEFORE THE GATE. 

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter, 

To fitful song and jest, 
To moods of soberness as idle, after, 

And silences, as idle too as the rest. 

But when at last upon their way returning, 

Taciturn, late, and loth, 
Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, 

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered both. 

Her heart was troubled with a subtle anguish 

Such as but women know 
That wait, and, lest love speak, or speak not, languish, 

And what they would, would rather they would not so; 

Till he said — man-like, nothing comprehending 

Of all the wondrous guile 
That women won win themselves with, and bending 

Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, — 

" Ah, if beyond this gate the path united 

Our steps as far as death, 
And I might open it ! — " His voice, affrighted 

At his own daring, faltered under his breath. 

Then she — whom both his faith and fear enchanted 

Far beyond words to tell, 
Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted 

The art he had that knew to blunder so well — 

Slyly drew near a little step, and mocking, 

Ll Shall we not be too late 
For tea?" she said; "I 'm quite worn out with walking: 

Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you — open the gate? " 

William Dean Ho wells. 



408 . GOLDEN POEMS. 

ABO U BEN AD HEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 

' What writest thou ? " The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 

" And is mine one ?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. iVbou spake more low, 
But cheerily still; and said, "I pra} r thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led ali the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



CLE ON AND I. 

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I; 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I; 
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I. 

Cleon true possesseth acres, but the landscape I; 
Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money cannot buy. 
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I; 
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I. 

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I; 
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I; 
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die; 
Death may come, he'll find me ready, — happier man am T. 

Cleon sees no charms in nature, in a daisy I; 
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky; 
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I; 
State for state, with all attendants, who would chano-e 
Not I. 

Charles Mackay. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 409 

THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 

Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear, — ■ 

Then you know a boy is an ass, 

Then you know the worth of a lass, 
Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray, 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 

May pray and whisper, and we not list. 

Or look away and never be missed, 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian 's dead, God rest her bier ; 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
Marian's married ; but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray, 



TEE LAST LEAF. 

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 



410 GOLDEN POEMS. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 
\i f Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
And it seems as if he said, 
" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has pressed 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — ■ 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here, 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 411 

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 

Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry ; 
His form was bent, and his gait was slow, 
His long, thin hair was as white as snow ; 

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, 
And he sang every night as he went to bed, 
M Let us be happy down here below ; 
The living should live, though the dead be clead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three, 
Writing, and reading, and history too; 
He took the little ones up on his knee, 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 
And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
"Learn while you 're young," he often said, 
" There is much to enjoy down here below ; 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 

Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
The rod was hardly known in his school ; 
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, 

And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said, 

" We should make life pleasant down here below, 
The living need charity more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
His rooms were quiet and neat and plain, 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 
And made him forget he was old and poor. 
" I need so little," he often said, 

" And my friends and relatives here below 
Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 
Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 

With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 

Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass ; — 

This was the finest pleasure, he said, 



412 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Of the many he tasted here below ; 
"Who has no cronies had better be dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 

Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; — 
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles ; — 
"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 
" I've lingered a long while here below; 
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled ! " 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 
While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
Leaving its tenderest kisses there 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; 
And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, 

'T was a glorious world down here below; 
" Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at his door one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 

While the odorous night-wind whispered "Rest ! " 
Gently, gently he bowed his head, — 

There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

George Arnold. 



DANIEL GRAY, 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well ; in truth, few knew him better ; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 413 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 

On ready words his freight of gratitude, 
Nor was he called upon among the gifted, 

In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes ; 

And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
I've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his motions, 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 

And hear the language of his trite devotions, 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint ! " 
And how the " eonquering-and-to-conquer " rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve him: 
He never kissed his children — so they say ; 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 

And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 

And I am told that when his Charley died, 
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charlie, 

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair, 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 

And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer; 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way 



414 GOLDEN POEMS. 

His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, 
Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit, 
Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



I'M GROWING OLD. 

My days pass pleasantly away; 

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep; 
I feel no symtoms of decay; 

I have no cause to mourn or weep; 
My foes are impotent and shy; 

My friends are neither false nor cold; 
And yet, of late, I often sigh, 
I'm growing old ! 

My growing talk of olden times, 
My growing thirst for early news, 

My growing apathy to rhymes, 
My growing love of easy shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My growing fear of taking cold, 

All whisper in the plainest voice, 
I'm growing old ! 

I'm growing fonder of my staff; 

I'm growing dimmer in the eyes; 
I'm growing fainter in my laugh; 

I'm growing deeper in my sighs; 
I'm growing careless of my dress; 

I'm growing frugal of my gold; 
I'm growing wise; I'm growing — yes,— 
I'm growing old ! 

I see it in my changing taste ; 

I see it in my changing hair ; 
I see it in my growing waist ; 

I see it in my growing heir ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 415 

A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 

As plain as truth was ever told, 
That, even in my vaunted youth, 
I'm growing old ! 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 

The tale in my reluctant ears, 
And every boon the hours bequeath 

But makes me debtor to the years ! 
E'en flattery's honeyed words declare 

The secret she would fain withhold, 

And tells me in " How young you are ! " 

I'm growing old ! 

Thanks for the years ! — whose rapid flight 

My sombre muse too sadly sings ; 
Thanks for the gleams of golden light 

That tint the darkness of their wings ! 
The light that beams from out the sky, 

Those heavenly mansions to unfold, 

Where all are blest, and none may sigh 

" I'm growing old ! " 

John Godfrey Saxe. 



« WILD OATS?' 

"When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green, 
And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen x 
Then fly for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

"When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are brown, 
And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down, 
Come home and take your place there 

The spent and maimed among; 
God grant you find a face there 

You loved when you were young! 

Charles Kingsley. 



41 G GOLDEN POEMS. 

THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED. 

Listen to the water-mill, 

Through the live-long day, 
How the clanking of the wheels 

Wears the hours away ! 
Languidly the Autumn wind 

Stirs the greenwood leaves; 
From the fields the reapers sing, 

Binding up the sheaves; 
And a proverb haunts my mind, 

As a spell is cast : 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Take the lesson to thyself, 

Living heart and true ; 
Golden years are fleeting by, 

Youth is passing too; 
Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day; 
Time will never bring thee back 

Chances swept away. 
Leave no tender word unsaid, 

Love while life shall last — 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Work while yet the daylight shines, 

Man of strength and will ; 
Never does the streamlet glide 

Useless by the mill. 
Wait, not till. to-morrow's sun 

Beams upon the way ; 
All that thou canst call thine own 

Lies in thy to-day. 
Power, intellect and health 

May not, cannot last ; 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by; 
Oh, the good we might have done, 

Lost without a sigh; 
Love that we might once have saved 

J^y a single word ; 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 417 

Thoughts conceived, but never penned, 

Perishing unheard. 
Take the proverb to thine heart, 
Take ! oh, hold it fast !— 
"The mill Avill never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

Anonymous. 



THE IVY GBEEJST. 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ; 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 

Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

"Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 

Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Charles Dickens. 

27 



418 GOLDEN POEMS. 



A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 

Oh, where will be the birds that sing, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The flowers that now in beauty spring, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy lip, the lofty brow, 
The heart that beats so gaily now, 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who '11 tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its brow of truth; 
The rich and poor, on land and sea, 
Where will the mighty millions be 

A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves shall sleep 

A hundred years to come ! 
No living soul for us will weep 

A hundred years to come ! 
But other men our lands shall till, 
And others then our streets will fill, 
While other birds will sing as gay, 
As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

A hundred years to come ! 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



VERTUE. 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and skie; 

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 

For thou must die. 

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angrie and brave, 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days nnd roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie; 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 419 



My musick shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and vertuous soul, 

Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



WHERE LIES THE LAND, 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ! 
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know ; 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever, 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley. 



420 GOLDEN POEMS. 

AFTER THE BALL. 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair, 

Their long bright tresses, one by one, 
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille; 

Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
Who, over the fire, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too; 
Scattered about in every place, 

For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
For the revel is done; 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 

And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 

All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 
While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud "and Madge in robes of white, 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Curtained away from the chilly ntght, 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream, 

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 

Tropical odors sweeter than musk, 
Men and women with beautiful faces 

And eyes of tropical dusk, — 

And one face shining out like a star, 

One face haunting the dreams of each, 
And one voice sweeter than others are, 

Breaking in silvery speech, — 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 421 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 

An old, old story over again, 
As down the royal bannered room, 

To the golden gittern's strain, 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 

While an unseen spirit walks beside, 
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 

He elaimeth one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge! dream on together, 

With never a pang of jealous fear; 
For, ere the bitter Saint Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 

Braided brown hair, and golden tress, 
There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press; 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace — ■ 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 

For you the revel has just begun; 
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
The revel of life is done! 

But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 

The kisses another hath won! 

Nora Perky. 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 

(January 1, 1863.) 
The, Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 

With tchich he used to go, 
Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Year 

That are now beneath the snow: 

For the same awful and portentous Shadow 

That overcast the earth, 
And smote the land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens every hearth. 



4*22 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march 

Gome up from every mart; 
And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, 

And beating in his heart. 

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran, 

Again he comes along, 
To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 

In another New Year's song. 

And the song is his, but not so with the story; 

For the story, you must know, 
Was told in prose to Assistant- Surgeon Austin, 

By a soldier of Shiloh: 

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, 

With his death-wound in his side/ 
And who told the story to the Assistant- Surg eon, 

On the same night that he died. 

But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad. 

If all shoidd deem it right, 
To tell the story as if what it speaks of 

Had happened but last night. 

" Come a little nearer, Doctor,. — thank you; let me take the 

cup: 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer; just another little sup! 
May be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well 

used up, — 
Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a-going 

up! 

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use 

to try " — 
" Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down 

a sigh; 
"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!" 
" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you 

come to die. 

"Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were very 

faint, they say; 
You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have I been 

away?" 
" Not that anybody knows of ! " " Doctor — Doctor, please 

to stay! 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't have 

long to stay! 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 423 

"I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted? — but it could n't ha' been so, 
For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, 
I've this very night been back there, on the old field of 
Shiloh! 

" This is all that I remember: The last time the Lighter 

came, 
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much 

the same, 
He had not been gone five minutes before something called 

my name: 
'Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton!' — just that way 

it called my name. 

"Audi wondered who could call me so distinctly and so 

slow, 
Knew it could n't be the Lighter, he could not have spoken so, 
And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir! ' but I couldn't make it go; 
For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go. 

" Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and 

a bore; 
Just another foolish grape-mne x — and it won't come any 

more; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as 

before : 
'Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton!' — even louder 

than before. 

"That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, 
And I stood beside the River, where we stood that Sunday 

i night, 
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, 
When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite! — 

" And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Tower; 

And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is the Eleventh 
Hour! 

Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — it is the Elev- 
enth Hour ! ' 

"Dr. Austin ! — what day is this?" "It is Wednesday 

night, you know." 
"Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good 

time below ! 

l A false story, a hoax. 



424 GOLDEN POEMS. 

What time is it, Dr. Austin?" "Nearly Twelve." "Then 

don 't you go ! 
Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago ! 

" There was where the gunboats opened on the dark rebel- 
lious host ; 

And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the 
coast ; 

There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else 
their ghost — 

And the same old transport came and took me over — or its 
ghost ! 

" And the old field lay before me, all deserted, far and wide; 

There was where they fell on Prentiss — there McCiernand 
met the tide ; 

There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurl- 
but's heroes died, — 

Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charg- 
ing till he died. 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the 

cannjr kin, 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau 

waded in ; 
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began to 

win — 
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began 

to win. 

"Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was 

spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on ray 

head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was 

dead, — 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead ! 

"Death and silence ! — Death and silence ! all around me as 

I sped ! 
And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead, 
To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head, 
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving 

from its head ! 

"Round and mighty based it towered up into the infinite — 
And! knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so 
bright 5 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 425 

For- it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of 
sight ! 

' ; And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and daz- 
zled stare, — 

Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great 
Stair, — 

Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt ! and who 
goes there?' 

' I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' ' Then advance, sir, 
to the Stair !' 

" I advanced ! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne ! 

First of all to fall on Monday, alter we had formed, the line ! 

' Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by that 
countersign !' 

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of 
mine. 

" As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the 
grave ; 

But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and blood- 
less glaive: 

L That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' ' What Head- 
quarters?' ' Of the Brave.' 

' But the great Tower?' 'That was builded of the great 
deeds of the Brave!' 

'* Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light ; 

At my own so old and battered, and at his so new .and 
bright; 

'Ah !' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to- 
night ! 

Hurry back, for vou must be here at just tw r elve o'clock to- 
night ! ' 

41 And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, 

and I 

Doctor — did vou hear a footstep? Hark! — God bless you 

all ! Good- by ! 
D. ctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when 

I die, 
To mv son — my son that's coming, — he won't get here till 

I die ! 

" Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never did be- 
fore, — 



426 GOLDEN POEMS. 

And to carry that old musket "...-. Hark ! a knock is at 

the door !..... 
" Till the Union " .... See ! it opens !...." Father ! 

Father ! speak once more !".... 
" JBless you ! " — gasped the old gray Sergeant. And. he lay 

and said no more ! 

Force ythe Willson. 



THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. 

How little recks it where men lie, 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last, — 
"Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest, 
Or in its nakedness return 

Back to its mother's breast ! 

Death is a common friend or foe, 

As different men may hold, 
And at his summons each must go, 

The timid and the bold; 
But when the spirit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must, 
What matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust ? 

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle-plain, 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain ; 
But though his corse be grim to see, 

Hoof-trampled on the sod, 
What recks it, when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to God ? 

The coward's dying eyes may close 

Upon his downy bed, 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er them spread: 
But ye who shun the bloody fray, 

Where fall the mangled brave, 
Go strip his coffin -lid away, 

And see him in his grave ! 



SCATTEKED LEAVES. 427 

'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, 

With those we cherish near, 
And, wafted upward by their sighs, 

Soar to some calmer sphere: 
But whether on the scaffold high, 

Or in the battle's van, 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man ! 

Michael Joseph Barry. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shan don bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I 've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



423 GOLDEN POEMS. 



I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole " in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swingmg uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

But the sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
O, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More dear to me, — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (Father Pkout). 



SONG OF THE FORGE. 

Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring; 
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing; 
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 
The mighty blows still multiply, — 

Clang, clang! 
Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 
What are your strong arms forging now? 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 429 

Clang, dang! — we forge the coulter now, — ■ 
The coulter of the kindly plough. 

Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To grenial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil! 

Clang, clang! our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 

By many a streamlet's silver tide; 
Amid the song of morning birds, 
Amid the low of sauntering herds, 
Amid soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the green hillside. 

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — ■ 

When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold, — 

We bless, we bless the plough. 

Clang, clang! — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows? 

Clink, clank! — we forge the giant chain 
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 

'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides: 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 

Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 

The storm-cloud on the hill; 
Calmly he rests, — though far away, 
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, 

Reliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these links shall sleep; 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep? 
By Afric's pestilential shore? 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, — 
By many a palmy western isle, 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile? 
By stormy Labrador? 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 



430 GOLDEN POEMS. 

When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 
For death or victory? 

Hurrah! — Cling, clang! — once more, what glows, 

Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 
The iron tempest of your blows, 

The furnace's red breath? 

Clang, clang! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured 

Around and up in the dusky air, 
As our hammers forge the Sword. 

The Sword! — a name of dread; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — 

While for his altar and his hearth, 

While for the land that gave him birth, 

The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — ■ 

How sacred is it then! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight, — 
Whether in some wild mountain pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston or a Bannockburn; 
Or amid crags and bursting rills, 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills; 
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — 

Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
Is Liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land, 

Then Heaven bless the Sword. 

Anonymous. 



THE BABE, 

Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled: 
So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep. 

Sir William Jones. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 431 

APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

I sit beneath the apple-tree, 

I see nor sky nor sun ; 
I only know the apple-buds 

Are opening one by one. 

You asked me once a little thing — 

A lecture or a song 
To hear with you ; and yet I thought 

To find my whole life long 

Too short to bear the happiness 

That bounded through the day, 
That made the look of apple blooms, 

And you and me and May ! 

For long between us there had hung 

The mist of love's young doubt ; 
Sweet, shy, uncertain, all the world 

Of trust and May burst out. 

I wore the flowers in my hair, 

Their color on my dress ; 
Dear love ! whenever apples bloom 

In heaven, do they bless 

Your heart with memories so small, 

So strong, so cruel, glad ? 
If ever apples bloom in heaven, 

I wonder are you sad ? 

Heart ! yield up thy fruitless quest, 

Beneath the apple tree ; 
Youth comes but once, love only once, 

And May but once to thee ! 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 



PICTURES OF MEMORY. 

Among the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall, 

Is one of a dim old forest, 
That seemeth best of all; 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
Dark with the mistletoe; 



432 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant 'ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep: 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree- tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint- 1 ke beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 

Therefore of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 



Alice Cary. 



WOMAN. 

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, 
Not she denied him with unholy tongue; 
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, 
Last at th.3 cress and earliest at the grave. 

Eaton Stannaed Barrett. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 433 

ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be Wed by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven, 
. Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Xor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the ni^ht-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, 

In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Toe. 
23 



434 GOLDEN POEMS. 

OLD TIMES. 

" 'T was thirty years ago, and now 

We meet once more," I sighed and said, 
" To talk of Eton and old times; 

But every second word is ' Dead ! ' " 

We fill the glass, and watch the wine 

Rise, as thermometers will do, 
Then rouse the fire into a blaze, 

And once more, boys, we share the glow. 

" Do you remember Hawtrey's time ? 
Pod Major, and the way he read ? 
And Powis and Old Stokes ? Alas ! 
Our every second word is c Dead ! ' " 

Well, springs must have their autumns too, 
And suns must set as they must shine ; 

And, waiter, here, a bottle more, 
And let it be your oldest wine. 

And gather closer to the fire, 

And let the gas flare overhead ; 
Some day our children will meet thus, 

And they will praise or blame the Dead. 

Anonymous. 



A WOMAWS LOVE. 

A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, 
Heard this shrill wail ring out from purgatory : 
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story ! 

" I loved, — and blind with passionate love, I fell ; 
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell ; 
For God is just, and death for sin is well. 

" I do not rage against his high decree, 
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
But for my love on earth who mourns for me. 

" Great Spirit ! Let me see my love again 
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain 
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 

Then said the pitying angel, " Nay, repent 
That wild vow ! Look, the dial finger 's bent 
Down to the last hour of thy punishment !" 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 435 

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go ! 
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe ! " 

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
She rose and vanished in the ether far. 

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, 
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, 
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. 

She sobbed, " I found him by the summer sea 

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 

She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me ! " 

She wept, " Now let my punishment begin ! 
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 

The angel answered, " Nay, sad soul, go higher ! 
To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
"Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire." 

John Hay. 



FISHING SONG. 

Doavist in the wide gray river 
The current is sweeping strong; 

Over the wide gray river 
Floats the fisherman's song. 

The oar- stroke times the singing, 
The song falls with the oar; 

And an echo in both is ringing, 
I thought to hear no more. 

Out of a deeper current, 

The song brings back to me 

A cry from mortal silence. 
Of mortal agony. 

Life that was spent and vanished, 
Love that had died of wrong, 

Hearts that are dead in living, 

Come back in the fisherman's sons:. 

I see the maples leafing, 
Just as they leafed before, 



436 GOLDEN POEMS. 

The green grass comes no greener 
Down to the very shore — 

With the rude strain swelling, sinking, 
In the cadence of days gone by, 

As the oar, from the water drinking, 
Ripples the mirrored sky. 

Yet the soul hath life diviner: 

Its past returns no more, 
But in echoes, that answer the minor 

Of the boat-song from the shore. 

And the ways of God are darkness; 

His judgment waiteth long; 
He breaks the heart of a woman 

With a fisherman's careless song. 

Rose Terry Cooke. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 

A life on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep ; 
Where the scattered waters rave. 

And the winds their revels keep ! 
Like an eagle caged I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
Oh, give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift-gliding craft : 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam, 

Like an ocean-bird set free, — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We '11 find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We '11 say, Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the wind and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 

Epes Sargent. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 437 

ALONE BY THE BAY. 

He is gone, my heart, he is gone ; 

And the sea remains, and the sky ; 
And the skiffs flit in and out, 

And the white- winged yachts go by. 

And the waves run purple and green, 

And the sunshine glints and glows, 
And freshly across the Bay 

The breath of the morning blows. 

I liked it better last night, 

When the dark shut down on the main, 
And the phantom fleet lay still, 

And I heard the waves complain. 

For the sadness that dwells in my heart, 

And the rune of their endless woe, 
Their longing and void and despair, 

Kept time in their ebb and flow. 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 



THE TEMPEST. 

We were crowded in the cabin, 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'T is a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, M Cut away the mast ! " 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy in his prayers, 
" We are lost !" the captain shouted, 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand, 



438 GOLDEN POEMS. 

" Is n't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land ? " 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 

And we spoke in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor 

When the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields. 



LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast, 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as freedom's eagle flew ! 
Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 
My mother, in thy prayer to-night 

There come new words and warmer tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light, 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years. 
Sleep safe, O wave- worn mariner! 

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : 
The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 

He sails to shore who sails with me. 
The wind- tossed spider needs no token 

How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ; 
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 

I know my mother Jives and prays. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



AT SEA. 

The night was made for cooling shade, 

For silence, and for sleep; 
And when I was a child, I laid 
My hands upon my breast, and prayed, 

And sank to slumbers deep : 
Childlike as then I lie to-night, 
And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 
Shows how the vessel reels: 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 439 

Arid o'er her deck the billows tramp, 
And all her timbers strain and cramp 

With every shock she feels; 
It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
And in its hinged socket turns. 

Now swinging slow and slanting low, 

It almost level lies; 
And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming; pendule go 

With restless fall and rise, 
The steady shaft is still upright, 
Poising its little globe of light. 

hand of God ! O lamp of peace ! 

O promise of my soul ! 
Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease, 
Amid the roar of smiting seas, 

The ship's convulsive roll, 

1 own with love and tender awe 
Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trust my spirit calms, 

My soul is filled with light: 
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms, 
The wild winds chant: I cross my palms, 

Happy as if to-night 
Under the cottao-e roof ao;ain 
I heard the soothing summer rain. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 



IN THE SEA. 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek, 

As it blew a year ago, 
When twenty boats were crushed among 

The rocks of Norman's woe: 
' T was dark then ; 't is light now, 

And the sails are leaning; low. 

In dreams I pull the sea- weed o'er, 

And find a face not his, 
And hope another tide will be 

More pitying than this : 
The wind turns, the tide turns, — ■ 

They take what hope there is. 



440 GOLDEN POEMS. 

My life goes on as life must go, 

With all its sweetness spilled : 
My God, why should one heart of two 

Beat on, when one is stilled ? 
Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck, 

Thy happy sparrows build. 

Though boats go down, men build again 

Whatever wind may blow ; 
If blight be in the wheat one year, 

They trust again and sow: 
The grief comes, the change comes, 

The tides run high and low. 

Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, 

The summers bloom and go; — 
The sea withholds my dead; I walk 

The bar when tides are low, 
And wonder how the grave-grass 

Can have the heart to grow. 

Flow on, O unconsenting sea, 

And keep my dead below ; 
The night-watch set for me is long, 

But, through it all, I know, 
Or life comes, or death comes, 

God leads the eternal flow. 

Hieam Rich. 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll protect it now. 
'T was my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er- land and sea: 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 441 

Oh, spare that aged oak, 
Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed roe here; 

My father pressed my hand — • 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let. that old oak stand! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

George Perkins Morris. 



ALBUM VERSES. 

Thoit record of the votive throng 
That fondly seeks this fairy shrine, 

And pays the tribute of a song 

Where worth and loveliness combine, — 

What boots that I, a vagrant wight 

From clime to clime still wandering on, 

Upon thy friendly page should write? 
Who'll think of me when I am gone? 

Go plow the wave, and sow the sand; 

Throw seed to every wind that blows; 
Along the highway strew thy hand, 

And fatten on the crop that grows. 

For even thus the man that roams 

On heedless hearts his feeling spends; 

Strange tenant of a thousand homes, 

And friendless, with ten thousand friends. 

Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace, 
To ask in after times a thought; 



442 GOLDEN POEMS. 

To say that here a resting-place 

My way-worn heart has fondly sought. 

So the poor pilgrim heedless strays, 

Unmoved, through many a region fair; 

But at some shrine his tribute pays, 
To tell that he has worshipped there. 

Washington Irving. 



WAITING. 

Serene I fold my arms and wait, 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea : 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays, 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways, 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 

The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years ; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The floweret nodding in the wind 

Is ready plighted to the bee; 
And, maiden, why that look unkind ? 

For lo ! thy loyer seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the sky; 

The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 443 

LIFE'S INCONGRUITIES. 

Green grows the laurel on the bank, 

Dark waves the pine upon the hill, 
Green hangs the lichen, cold and dank, 

Dark springs the hearts-ease by the rill, 
Age-mosses clamber ever bright, 

Pale is the water-lily's bloom: 
Thus Life still courts the shades of night, 

And beauty hovers o'er the tomb. 

So, all through life, incongruous hue 

Each object wears from childhood down; 
The evanescent — heaven's blue, 

The all-enduring — sober brown; 
Our brightest dreams too quickly die, 

And griefs are green that should be old, 
And joys that sparkle to the eye 

Are like a tale that's quickly told. 

And yet 'tis but the golden mean 

That checks our lives' unsteady flow; 
God's counterbalance thrown between, 

To poise the scale 'twixt joy and woe: 
And better so; for were the bowl 

Too freely to the parched lip given, 
Too much of grief would crush the soul, 

Too much of joy would wean from heaven. 

Egbert Phelps. 



EQUINOCTIAL. 

The sun of life has crossed the line ; 

The summer-shine of lengthened light 
Faded and failed — till, where I stand, 

'T is equal day and equal night. 

One after one, as dwindling hours, 

Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, 

And soon m iy barely leave the gleam 
That coldly scores a winter's day. 

I am not young — I am not old ; 

The flush of morn, the sunset calm, 
Paling' and deepening, each to each, * 

Meet midway with a solemn charm. 



444 GOLDEN POEMS. 

One side I see the summer fields, 
Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 

While westerly, along the hills, 

Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm 
Make battle-ground of this my life ! 

Where, even-matched, the night and day 
Wage round me their September strife. 

I bow me to the threatening gale : 

I know when that is overpast, 
Among the peaceful harvest days 

An Indian Summer comes at last. 

Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 



THE MYSTERIES. 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 

Holding my breath ; 
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 

At the dark mystery of Death. 

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 

Spent with the strife, — 
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast - 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 

William Dean Howells. 



RUTH. 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long- lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too fright. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. .445 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood. 



THE LATE SPRING. 

She stood alone amidst the April fields — 
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and barp. 
" The Spring is late," she said, " the faithless Spring, 
That should have come to make the meadows fair. 

"Their sweet South left too soon; among the trees, 
The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; 
For them no green boughs wait, — their memories 
Of last year's April had deceived them so." 

She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad Spring, 
The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. 
" Thus God has dealt with me, his child," she said ; 
" I wait my Spring-time, and am cold like these. 

" To them will come the fullness of their time ; 

Their Spring, though late, will make the meadows fair; 
Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 
I am his own, — doth not my father care ? " 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 



THOUGHT. 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 



446 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Heart to heart was never known; 

Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream? 
What our wise philosophy 

But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought, 

Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught, 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 

And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We, like parted drops of rain, 
Swelling till they meet and run, 

Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 



BLINDNESS. 

Whek I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide; 
"Doth God exact day labor, light denied ?" ° 
I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er iand and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 447 

NIGHT AND DEATH. 

vsteriotjs night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who couid find, 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 

Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued; 

The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low, 
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 

His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight; 

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, — 
Crew thrice, — and all was stiller than before; 



448 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Silent, till some replying warden blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every light wind like a censer swung; — ■ 

Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, 
The bus} r swallows circling ever near, — 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous year; — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 

The spiders moved their thin shrouds ni^ht by night, 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air, 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron with monotonous tread 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She bad known Sorrow, — he had walked with her, 
Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all; 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall: 

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 449 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



ENDURANCE. 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! 

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die ! 
I question much if any pain or ache 

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh: 
Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn, 
All evils may be borne. 

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, 
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel 

Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life; 
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, 

That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, 
This also can be borne. 

We see a sorrow rising in our way, 

And try to flee from the approaching ill; 

We seek some small escape; we weep and pray; 
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still; 

Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn 
But that it can be borne. 

We wind our life about another life; 

We hold it closer, dearer than our own: 
Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, 

Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone; 
But ah ! we do not die with those we mourn, — 
This also can be borne. 

Behold, we live through all things, — famine, thirst, 

Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, 
All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst 
On soul and body, — but we cannot die. 
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn, — 
Lo, all things can be borne ! 
29 Elizabeth Akers Allen (Florence Peiicv). 



450 GOLDEN POEMS. 

OUTGROWN. 

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she' s not fickle; her love 

she has simply outgrown: 
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by 

the light of one's own. 

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly ? There is much 

that my heart would say; 
And you know we were children together, have quarrelled 

and " made up " in play. 

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you 

the truth, — 
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier 

youth. 

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the 

self-same plane, 
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls 

should be parted again. 

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her 

life's early May; 
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love 

you to-day. 

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up 

or go down; 
And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been 

with your own ? 

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer 
and wiser each year: 

The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous at- 
mosphere! 

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, 
five summers ago, 

Has learned that the first of our duties to God and our- 
selves is to grow. 

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer: but their vision is 

clearer as well; 
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver 

bell. 

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his 

angels have talked: 
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits 

with whom she has walked. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 451 

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, 

aspired and prayed? 
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered 

it undismayed? 

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and 

the years have rolled on ? 
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of 

victory won? 

Nay, hear me ! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day 

in her presence you stood 
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that 

of her womanhood? 

Go measure yourself by her standard ; look back on the 

years that have fled : 
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her 

girlhood is dead. 

She cannot look down to her lover : her love, like her soul, 

aspires ; 
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle 

its holy fires. 

Now farewell ! For the sake of old friendship I have ven- 
tured to tell you the truth, 

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier 
youth. 

Julia C. R. Doer. 



THE PENITENT. 

St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold; 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers whde he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his'knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 



452 GOLDEN POEMS. 

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees; 
The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails; 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor; 
But no, — already had his death-bell rung; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung: 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 

John Keats {Eve of St. Agnes). 



THE AIM OF LIFE. 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. 
And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest: 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 
Life is but a means unto an end; that end, 
Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God. 
The dead have all the glory of the world. 

Philip James Bailey (Festus). 



FAME. 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass? 

And if it do, 
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, 

What need'st thou rue? 
Remember, aye the ocean deeps are mute; 

The shallows roar; 
Worth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit 

Along the shore. 



SCATTERED LEAVES. ^453 

What shall I do to be forever known? — 

Thy duty ever. 
This did full many who yet slept unknown. 

Oh! never, never! 
Think'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown 

Whom thou know'st not? 
By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown, — 

Divine their lot! 

What shall I do to gain eternal life?. 

Discharge aright 
The simple dues with which each day is rife! 

Yea, with thy might! 

From the German of Schiller. 



MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN. 

Three words fall sweetly on my soul 

As music from an angel lyre, 
That bid my spirit spurn control 

And upward to its source aspire; 
The sweetest sounds to mortals given 
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. 

Dear Mother! ne'er shall I forget 

Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile! 

Though in the sea of death hath set 
Thy star of life, my guide awhile, 

Oh, never shall thy form depart 

From the bright pictures in my heart. 

And like a bird that from the flowers, 
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest, 

My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours, 

Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; 

The cottage, garden, hill, and stream, 

Still linger like a pleasant dream. 

And while to one engulfing grave, 
By time's swift tide we 're driven, 

How sweet the thought that every wave 
But bears us nearer Heaven! 

There we shall meet when life is o'er, 

In that blest Home, to part no more. 

William Goldsmith Brown. 



454 GOLDEN POEMS. 

THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done, — the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christinas time ; 
On life's wide scene you too have parts 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play; 
Good night ! with honest, gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good night ! I'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age; 
I 'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men, 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys, 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say how fate may change and shift, 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift : 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design? 
Blessed be He who took and gave ! 



SCATTERED LEAVES. 455 

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit, 

Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen ! — whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days; 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men ! 

My song, save this, is little worth; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health and love and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide; 



456 GOLDEN POEMS. 

As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still: 

Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 
To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THE END. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

Abide with me ! fast falls the even-tide 396 

A boding- silence reigns . t 91 

A bou Ben Adheni (may his. tribe increase) . .' 408 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 329 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 152 

Ah! not because our Soldier died before his field was won . . 327 

Ah, there be souls none understand 99 

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store 244 

A life on the ocean wave 436 

A light is out in Italy . 188 

A little bird once met another bird 165 

A little elbow leans upon your knee 36 

A Jl day the stormy wind has blown . 3- r >4 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep .... 86 

All the world over I wonder, in lands that I never have trod . 341 

Among the beautiful pictures 431 

And all is well, though faith and form 357 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves 217 

And are ye sure the news is true 39 

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee 395 

And is there care in heaven? And is there love 393 

And on her lover's arm she leant 153 

And there they sat, a-popping corn 255 

"And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend 7 ' . .... 332 

Around this lovely valley rise 62 

As aw hurried throo th' toan to mi wark 254 

A sentinel angel sitting high in glory 434 

A simple child 307 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea 152 

As the day's last light is dying 171 

At Bannockburn the English lay 192 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay ...... 223 

At last the golden oriental gate 84 

At setting day and rising morn 140 

Away! let naught to love displeasing 37 

Banner of England ! not for a season, banner of Britain, hast thou 227 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead 275 

Before I trust my fate to thee 174 

Between the dark and the daylight 32 

Bewitching, beauteous, cruel Jane McSparrow 248 

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies 370 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 369 

Bird of the wilderness 76 

Br.ak, break, break 310 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead 200 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast 438 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride 318 

(457) 



458 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

PAGE 

But see! lookup! — on Flodden bent 213 

But heard are the voices . \ . . 339 

But where to find that happiest spot below 187 

But who the melodies of morn can tell 61 

By the flow of the inland river 324 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood 202 

By the waters of Life we sat together 117 

Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring 428 

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I 408 

Clime of the unforgotten brave 182 

Close his eyes, his work is done 326 

Cloudy argosies are drifting down into the purple dark . . . 37 > 

Come, cheerily men, pile on the rails 237 

Come live with me and be my love 146 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death 191 

Come, when no graver cares employ 131 

Cupid and my Cainpaspe play 'd ^ . . . . 143 

Day dawned; — within a curtained room 311 

Day is dying! Float, song . . 88 

" De mortuis nil nisi bonum." When 328 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way 363 

Down in the wide gray river 435 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us 59 

Earth, let thy softest mantle rest 333 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood 53 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills . 372 

Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us 132 

Enough! we 're tired, my heart and I 291 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind 203 

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sugges- 
tion is fairer 103 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth 184 

Fancies are but streams 99 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 159 

Flowers that have died upon my Sweet 379 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 149 

Friend after friend departs 358 

From you have I been absent in the spring 145 

" Give us a song! " the soldiers cried . 232 

God save our gracious king 195 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 159 

Good people all, of every sort 262 

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth .... 355 

Green be the turf above thee 129 

Green fields of England! wheresoe'er 188 

Green grows the laurel on the bank 443 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born 85 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 73 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty . . . 252 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 146 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 82 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound 341 

He is gone, my heart, he is gone 437 

He liveth long who liveth well 339 

Here in my snug little fire-lit chamber 106 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 459 

PAGE 

Here in this leafy place 295 

Here she was wont to go! and here! and here 141 

Her face was very fair to see 127 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin 409 

Ho, reapers of life's harvest 355 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood ... 45 

How do I love thee '? Let me count the ways . 152 

How happy is he born and taught 340 

How little recks it where men lie 426 

How many times do I love thee, dear 148 

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break . . . . . 449 

How pure at heart and sound in head 387 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 387 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 209 

How snowdrops cold and blue-eyed harebells blend 69 

How steadfastly she'd worked at it 288 

I am a Prussian ! see my colors gleaming 197 

I arise from dreams of thee 158 

I cannot eat but little meat 246 

I cannot paint what then I was 55 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny 54 

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 148 

I do not own an inch of land 115 

If* all the world and love were young 147 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 171 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 412 

If I were told that I must die to-morrow 363 

If life be as a flame that death doth kill 367 

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain 125 

I gazed upon the glorious sky 57 

1 have a little kinsman 381 

1 have got a new-bom sister 29 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 304 

I have just been learning the lesson of life ....... 305 

1 know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder 30 

I know where Krishna tarries in these early days of Spring . . 170 

I lately lived in quiet ease 243 

I lay me down to sleep 368 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey 183 

I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary 316 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly 103 

In golden youth, when seems the earth 349 

In their ragged regimentals 233 

In the stili air the music lies unheard 348 

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise 286 

I remember, I remember 47 

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James . 265 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden 160 

I saw him once before 409 

I saw two clouds at morning 173 

I sit beneath the apple-tree 431 

I slept in an old homestead by the sea 109 

Is Nature weak? Do her enchantments fail 347 

I softly sink into the bath of sleep 119 

It lies around us like a cloud 384 



460 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

PAGE 

It's hame, and it *s hame, hame fain wad I be 42 

It 's we two, it 's we two, it 's we two for aye 27 

It was many and many a year ago 433 

I wandered by the brookside 166 

I wandered ]onelv as a cloud 73 

1 would not live alway : I ask not to stay 390 

Jenny kissed me when we met 157 

John Anderson my jo, John 39 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 260 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low 164 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 397 

Leaves have their time to fall 313 

3 jet me not to the marriage of true minds 139 

Let time and chance combine, combine 154 

Let us spread the sail for purple islands 361 

Life ! I know not what thou art 366 

Like fragments of an uncompleted world 81 

Listen to the water-mill 416 

Look, love, what envious streaks 84 

Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands 168 

Love scorns degrees; the low he lifteth high 170 

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest 372 

Many a long, long year ago 259 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale 223 

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch hame coals . . . 249 

Matted with yellow grass the fields lie bare 70 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie 156 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam 41 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour 187 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord . . 234 

My boat is on the shore . 128 

My days pass pleasantly away „ . . . 414 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you 419 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 78 

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow 166 

My heart leaps up when I behold 95 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach 114 

My soul to-day 100 

Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 447 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his 140 

Naked, on parent's knees, a new-born child 430 

Nay, you wrong her, my friend; she 's not fickle; her love she 

has simply outgrown 450 

Nearer, my God, to thee 394 

Never from lips of cunning fell 343 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made 293 

No more — no more — 0, nevermore on me 310 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 278 

Not here! not here! not where the sparkling waters .... 359 

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung 432 

Not what the chemists say they be 165 

Now all ye flowers make room 356 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are . .219 

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast 41 

O bairn, when 1 am dead 290 



INDEX OF FIEST LINEkS. 461 

PAGE 

blithe new-comer! I have heard 77 

days and hours, your work is this 157 

don't be sorrowful, darling 38 

faint, delicious, spring-time violet 72 

Of all the floures in the mede 72 

Of Nelson and the North 221 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights . 180 

for a lodge in some vast wilderness 179 

for a tongue to curse the slave 186 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green 417 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone .......... 348 

Oh, earth and heaven are far apart 163 

hearts that never cease to yearn 362 

Oh ! give me back that royal dream .172 

Oh! listen, man 373 

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette 162 

Oh, to be home again, home again, home again 44 

Oh, where will be the birds that sing 418 

Keeper of the Sacred Key 204 

0, lay thy hand in mine, dear 175 

majestic Night 86 

Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 54 

Mary, at thy window be 156 

" Mary, go and call the cattle home 285 

may I join the choir invisible 365 

0, my Luve 's like a red, red rose 160 

Once at the Angelus . . . 288 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept 444 

One day as I wandered, I heard a complaining 256 

One night came on a hurricane 257 

One sweetly solemn thought 391 

One year ago, — a ringing voice 294 

On Linden, when the sun was low 218 

Only a baby small 27 

Only waiting till the shadows 389 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake _ 80 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride 184 

sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile 181 

0, saw ye bonnie Lesley 150 

0, saw ye the lass wi' the bonnie blue een 168 

say, can you see, by the dawn's early light 195 

0, sing unto my roundelay 309 

still, white face of perfect peace 357 

swallow, swallow, flying, flying south _ 155 

Thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 398 

thou great Friend to all the sons of men 897 

Over the river they beckon to me 388 

waly, waly up the bank . 314 

wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being .... 90 

Winter, ruler of the inverted year 64 

Pain's furnace heat within me quivers ,. 349 

Peace, troubled heart! the way 's not long before thee . . . 358 

Poor lone Hannah 287 

Rifl 'man, shoot me a fancy shot 238 

Roil on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll 79 



462 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 

PAGE 

Sally Salter, she was a young teacher who taught 258 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 350 

See the chariot at hand here of Love . • 142 

Serene T fold my arms and wait 442 

She dwelt among the untrodden, ways 302 

"She is dead! " they said to him. " Come away . .... 321 

She stood alone amidst the April fields 445 

She stood breast high amid the corn 444 

She was a phantom of delight 161 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 126 

Since there 7 s no help, come let us kiss and part 149 

Sing again the song you sung 108 

Sitting all day in a silver mist 113 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye 55 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves . 325 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for thee 134, 

So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare 65 

Soft on the sunset sky 280 

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew 144 

Some day, some day of days, threading the street . . . . . 119 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice : thou 89 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air . . 58 

St. Agnes' eve — ah, bitter chill it was 451 

Stand! the ground 's your own, my braves . 200 

Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us 105 

Straight to his heart the bullet crushed 208 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 418 

Sweet is the voice that calls 63 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 87 

Take, O take those lips away 145 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 275 

Thank Heaven! the ciisis 105 

That which her slender waist confined 141 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 31 

The bilder oke, and eke the hard asshe 68 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies 362 

The blessed damozel leaned out ..Ill 

The breaking waves dashed high 203 \ 

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 421 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ........ 299 

The day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills . . 2^0 

The despot's heel is on thy shore 235 

The face which, duly as the sun 344 

The faithful helm commands the keel 107 

The farmer sat in his easy chair _ 34 

The fountains mingle with the river 158 

The keener tempests rise : and fuming dun « 93 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. . . . 279 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 283 

The muse, disgusted at an age and clime 192 

Then give me back that time of pleasures 104 

Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere 201 

The night is made for cooling shade 438 

The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star .... 84 

The One remains, the many change and pass 400 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 463 

PAGE 

The pass is barred! " Fall back! " cries the guard; " cross not 

the French frontier 330 

The pines were dark on Ranioth hill 297 

The play is done — the curtain drops 454 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 94 

There are three lessons I would write 354 

There is a garden in her face . . 143 

There is no death ! The stars go clown 382 

There is no time like the old time, when you and I were young 44 

There shall be no more sea; no wild winds bringing 333 

There was a sound of revelry by night 216 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream .... 374 

There Avas once a boat on a billow 392 

There were three sailors of Bristol City 247 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek 439 

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another .... 335 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain . . 353 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! night 92 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 374 

The splendor falls on castle walls 1(B 

The sun oil fe has crossed the line 443 

The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home 43 

The time for toil is past, and night has come 352 

The western wind is blowing fair 169 

The world is too much with us; late and soon 53 

They gave the whole long day to idle laughter 407 

They grew in beauty side by side 43 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair 420 

They told me I was heir; I turned in haste 351 

They ve got a bran-new organ, Sue 250 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling 239 

This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee .... 282 

This world is all a fleeting show 360 

Those we love truly never die 125 

Thought is deeper than all speech 441 

Thou record of the votive throng 434 . 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west 323 

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down .... 286 

Three words fall sweetly on my soul 453 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 303 

Thus all day long the full distended clouds ....... 94 

Thy spirit, independence, let me share 180 

'T is sweet to hear 151 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold 147 

Tread lightly, she is near 293 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago 411 

" 'T was thirty years ago, and now 434 

'T was wlien the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in' . . . 306 

Two armies covered hill and plain 405 

" Two hands upon the breast 367 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain 385 

Upon ane stormy Sunday 253 

Victor in poesy! Victor in romance 132 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 371 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights to tell . 267 



464 INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 

P GB 

Wake now, my Love, awake! for it is time 139 

Was ever sorro/w like to our sorrow 315 

'Way down upon de Swanee Ribber 42 

We are all here . 49 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town 33 

We have been friends together 127 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 94 

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still . . 290 

Welcome, maids of honor . ^ 70 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths .... 452 

We parted in silence, we parted by night . . 167 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 271 

We sail toward evening's lonely star 110 

We sit here in the Promised Land 327 

We watched her breathing through the night 232 

We were crowded in the cabin 437 

What constitutes a state 185 

What is the little one thinking about 28 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass 452 

What though I sing no other song Ill 

Wheel me into the sunshine 102 

When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 314 

W hen all the world is young, lad 415 

When Freedom from her home was driven 1*1 

When Freedom, from her mountain height 193 

When I bethink me on that speech whyleare 401 

When I consider how my light is spent 446 

When I think on the happy days 157 

When love with unconfined wings 141 

" '• hen the grass shall cover me " 2*9 

When the humid shadows hover 46 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame . . 277 

When thou, in all thy loveliness 292 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays 248 

Where is the German's Fatherland 198 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go 419 

"Which shall it be? Which shall it be" . 35 

While sauntering through the crowded street 116 

Whilst in this cold and blustering clime 129 

Who cai paint like Nature 56 

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate 323 

Why flyest thou away with fear 265 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 144 

With deep affection 427 

With heavy head bent on her yielding hand 311 

Within the" sober realm of leafless trees 447 

Woodman, spare that tree • 440 

Worn with the battle by Stamford town 189 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 296 

Ye banks and braes o 1 bonnie Doon 308 

Ye mariners of England 215 

Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory 196 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven 88 

You, Dinah! Come and set me where de ribber-roads does meet 263 

Young RoryO'Mora courted Kathleen Bawn 245 



